



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 




000135 c nbSfl 



THE POETIC AND 
DRAMATIC WORKS OF ALFRED 

; 

LORD TENNYSON 



Hifirarp oE&ition 



whn ONE HUNDRED AND THIRTY-FIVE 
ILLUSTRATIONS 




BOSTON AND NEW YORK 

HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY 

®&e fttoer#be $re?& Cambri&ge 

M DCCC XCIX 




Of 4 -1899 




fc/fl 



45269 



COPYRIGHT, I099, BY HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & CO. 
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 



TWO COPIES RECEIVED. 



•fcc jud copy. 




tfffK; 



NOV - 1 1819 



^ / 






PUBLISHEKS' NOTE 

A Household Edition of Tennyson's Poems was published by the predeces- 
sors of the present publishers in 1871, and advantage was at that time taken 
of Moxon's English edition with illustrations by artists, mainly of the Pre- 
raphaelite school, to include a number of these designs ; to these were added 
designs by American artists who worked in much the same spirit. But that 
edition comprised somewhat less' than half the present number of Tennyson's 
poems, and from time to time, as successive volumes of poems were repub- 
lished by arrangement with the English publishers, their contents were added 
to the Household Edition and accompanied by new designs by English and 
American artists. 

The recent issue by the publishers of the Cambridge Edition of Tennyson's 
poetic and dramatic works, in which the text was very carefully determined, 
has induced them to reissue the Household Edition on practically the same 
lines as the original edition, but with entirely new plates of larger type, and 
with such a revision of the illustrations as was possible under the improved 
conditions. The text is that of the Cambridge Edition, scrupulously followed. 
A brief biographic sketch has been provided, and suitable indexes have been 
furnished. The illustrations have been selected with great care from the best 
designs made to accompany the poems by English, American, and French 
artists, and have been reinforced also by portraits and representations of 
historic buildings. In repeating the important series by Millais, Bossetti, 
La Farge, Vedder, and others, recourse has been had to early impressions, 
and sometimes to the original blocks, to secure clearness of line and fresh- 
ness of color. The total number of illustrations has been largely increased, 
and the result is the most thoroughly illustrated Tennyson thus far offered to 
the public. 

The large body of Tennyson's poetic and dramatic works, when thus in- 
creased in bulk by so many illustrations, makes the problem of producing an 
agreeable single volume very difficult ; but by the choice of a compact page, 
the use of a thin opaque paper, and great care in printing, the publishers trust 
they have at least come near the solution of the problem. 

Boston : Autumn, 1899. 



TABLE OF CONTENTS 



PAGE 

xvii 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 
TO THE QUEEN . 



JUVENILIA. 

Cla'ribel 3 

Nothing will die . . . 4 
All Things will die ... 4 
Leonine Elegiacs ... 4 
Supposed Confessions of a Sec- 
ond-rate Sensitive Mind . 5 

The Kraken 7 

Song : ' The winds, as at their 

hour of birth' ... 7 

Lilian 7 

Isabel . . . ' . . .8 

Mariana 8 

To 10 

Madeline . . . ... 10 

Song : The Owl .... 11 

Second Song, to the same . 11 
Recollections of the Arabian 

Nights . . . . . . 11 

Ode to Memory . . . .14 

Song : ' A spirit haunts the 

year's last hours' . . 16 

A Character .... 16 

The Poet 17 

The Poet's Mind ... 18 
The Sea-Fairies . . . .18 

The Deserted House . . 19 

The Dying Swan .... 20 

A Dirge 20 

Love and Death . . . .21 

The Ballad of Oriana . . 21 

Circumstance 23 

The Merman . . . . 23 
The Mermaid . . . . .24 

Adeline 24 

Margaret 26 

Rosalind 26 

Eleanore 27 

Kate . f 29 

* My life is full of weary days' 29 
Early Sonnets. 

I. To 29 

II. To J. M. K 30 

III. ' Mine be the strength of 

SPIRIT, FULL AND FREE ' 30 

IV. Alexander . . . .30 
V. Buonaparte ... 30 

VI. Poland 31 

VII. 'Caress'd or chidden by 

the slender hand' . 31 



VIII. ' The form, the form 

ALONE IS ELOQUENT ' 

IX. 'Wan Sculptor, weepest 

THOU TO TAKE THE CAST ' 
X. * IF I WERE LOVED, AS I DE- 
SIRE TO BE ' 

XL The Bridesmaid 



31 



31 



32 
32 



THE LADY OF SHALOTT, 
OTHER POEMS. 
The Lady of Shalott 
Mariana in the South 
The Two Voices . 
The Miller's Daughter 
Fatima 



AND 



35 
37 
44 
47 

CEnone 48 

53 
54 
54 
60 
61 
62 
64 
65 
66 
69 
75 
76 
77 
78 



The Sisters 

To 

.The Palace of Art . 
Lady Clara Vere de Vere 
The May Queen .... 

New-Year's Eve .... 

Conclusion .... 
The Lotos-Eaters . 5 . 
Choric Song .... 
A Dream of Fair Women . 
The Blackbird .... 
The Death of the Old Year . 

To J. S 

On a Mourner .... 
'you ask me, why, tho' ill at 

EASE ' 

'Of old sat Freedom on the 

HEIGHTS ' 

'Love thou thy land, with love 



79 

79 



FAR-BROUGHT ' 


79 


England and America in 1782 . h 


The Goose .... 


81 


NGLISH IDYLS, AND OTHER 


POEMS. 




The Epic 


. 83 


Morte d' Arthur 


84 


The Gardener's Daughter < 


. 90 


Dora 


95 


Audley Court 


. 99 


Walking to the Mail 


100 


Edwin Morris 


. 102 


Saint Simeon Stylites . 


105 


The Talking Oak . 


. 109 


Love and Duty . 


114 


The Golden Year 


. 115 


Ulysses .... 


117 


TlTHONUS s__ 


^J-18 


Locksley Hall . 


120 



VI 



TABLE OF CONTENTS 



Lyrical 



128 
128 
130 
130 
131 
132 
132 
132 
133 
133 
134 
135 
136 

137 
141 



Godiva T" 126 

The Day-Dream. 

Prologue . 

The Sleeping Palace 

The Sleeping Beauty 

The Arrival 

The Revival . 

The Departure . 

Moral 

L'Envoi 

Epilogue . 
Amphion .... 
Saint Agnes' Eve -: — 
Edward Gray 
Sir Galahad .*-,- 
Will Waterproof 

Monologue 
Lady Clare 

The Captain 142 

The Lord of Burleigh . . 143 

The Voyage 144 

Sir Launcelot and Queen Guin- 
evere . -- . . . . 146 

A Farewell 146 

The Eagle , . . . .146 
'Move eastward, happy earth' 146 
The Beggar Maid . . . 147 

* Come not, when I am dead ' . 147 

The Letters 148 

The Vision of Sin . . . 148 

to , after reading a llfe 

and Letters . 
To E. L., on his Travels in 

Greece . . . . . 
'Break, break, break* 
The Poet's Song 



. 151 

153 
153 
153 



THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. 

Prologue 154 

The Princess . . . .158 

Interlude 189 

Conclusion 213 

IN MEMORIAM A. H. H. . . 217 
MAUD, AND OTHER POEMS. 
Maud ; a Monodrama . . 260 
The Brook . . . . .281 

The Daisy 286 

To the Rev. F. D. Maurice . . 287 

Will .288 

Ode on the Death of the Duke 

of Wellington . . .288 
The Charge of the Light Bri- 
gade 292 

ENOCH ARDEN, AND OTHER 
POEMS. 

Enoch Arden 293 

Aylmer's Field .... 312 

Sea Dreams 327 

Ode sung at the Opening of the 

International Exhibition . 333 
A Welcome to Alexandra . 334 
The Grandmother . . . 334 



Northern Farmer; old style 
Northern Farmer; new style . 
In the Valley of Cauteretz . 

The Flower 

Requiescat 

The Sailor Boy *- ^_ 

The Islet ..... 
A Dedication .... 

Experiments. 

Boadicea 

In Quantity. 

On Translations of Homer . 

Milton 

' you chorus of indolent 

reviewers ' 
Specimen of a Translation 
of the Iliad in Blank 
Verse .... 
The Third of February, 1852 
A Welcome to Her Royal High- 
ness Marie Alexandrovna, 
Duchess of Edinburgh 
In the Garden at Swainston 
Child Songs. 

I. The City Child . 
II. Minnie and Winnie 
The Spiteful Letter . 
Literary Squabbles 

The Victim 

Wages 

The Higher Pantheism 

The Voice and the Peak 

' Flower in the crannied wall ' 

Lucretius 

THE WINDOW ; OR, THE SONG 
OF THE WRENS. 
The Window. 
On the Hill . 
At the Window . 
Gone . 
Winter . 
Spring 

The Letter . 
No Answer 
No Answer . 
The Answer 
Ay .... 
When . 
Marriage Morning 



337 
339 
340 
340 
341 
341 
342 
342 

342 

344 
344 

345 



345 
345 



346 
347 

347 
348 
348 
348 
348 
349 
350 
350 
351 
351 



THE LOVER'S TALE 
The Golden Supper 

IDYLLS OF THE KING. 

Dedication ... 

The Coming of Arthur 

The Round Table. 
Gareth and Lynette . 
The Marriage of Geraint 
Geraint and Enid . 
Balin and Balan 
Merlin and Vivien 
Lancelot and Elaine 



357 
358 
358 
358 
358 
358 
359 
359 
359 
359 
359 
360 

361 
380 



387 
388 

398 
423 
439 
457 
468 
487 



TABLE OF CONTENTS 



vn 



The Holy Grail . . .513 
Pelleas and Ettarre . . 529 
The Last Tournament . . 540 
Guinevere .... * 553 
The Passing of Arthur . . 567 
To the Queen 575 

BALLADS, AND OTHER POEMS. 
To Alfred Tennyson, my Grand- 
son 577 

The First Quarrel . . . 577 

Rizpah 579 

The Northern Cobbler . . 582 
The Revenge — - — . . . 584 

The Sisters 586 

The Village Wife ... 592 
In the Children's Hospital . 595 
Dedicatory Poem to] the Prin- 
cess Alice .... 596 
The Defence of Lucknow . . 597 
Sir John Oldcastle, Lord Cob- 
ham 599 

Columbus 603 

The Voyage of Maeldune . 607 
De Profundis. 
The Two Greetings . . .610 
The Human Cry ... 611 
Sonnets. 
Prefatory Sonnet . . . 611 
To the Rev. W. H. Brookfield 611 
Montenegro .... 612 
To Victor Hugo . . . .612 
Translations, etc. 
Battle of Brunanburh . 613 
Achilles over the Trench . 614 
To Princess Frederica on her 

Marriage .... 616 
Sir John Franklin . . . 616 
To Dante 616 

TIRESIAS, AND OTHER POEMS. 
To E. Fitzgerald . . . .617 

Tiresias 618 

The Wreck 621 

Despair ...... 624 

The Ancient Sage . . .628 
The Flight ._». . . .632 

To-Morrow 634 

The Spinster's Sweet-arts . 637 

The Charge of the Heavy Bri- 

gade at Balaclava. 
Prologue : to General Ham- 
ley . . . . . .639 

The Charge .... 640 

Epilogue 641 

To Virgil 642 

The Dead Prophet . . . 643 
Early Spring .... 644 
Prefatory Poem to my Bro- 
ther's Sonnets . . . 645 
' Frater Ave atque Vale ' . 645 
Helen's Tower . • . . 646 
Epitaph on Lord Stratford de 
Redcliffe . . . .646 



Epitaph on General Gordon . 646 
Epitaph on Caxton . . . 646 
To t^e Duke of Argyll . . 646 
Hands all round . . . 646 

Freedom 647 

Poets and their Bibliographies 648 
To H. R. H. Princess Beatrice . 648 

LOCKSLEY HALL SIXTY YEARS 
AFTER, ETC. 

Locksley Hall Sixty Years 

AFTER 649 

The Fleet 657 

Opening of the Indian and Co- 
lonial Exhibition by the 

Queen 657 

To W. C. Macready ... 658 

DEMETER, AND OTHER POEMS. 
To the Marquis of Dufferin 

and Ava ..... 659 
On the Jubilee of Queen Vic- 
toria 660 

To Professor Jebb . . . 661 
Demeter and Persephone . 661 

Owd Roa 664 

Vastness 667 

The Ring 669 

Forlorn 678 

Happy 679 

To Ulysses . . . . .682 
To Mary Boyle .... 683 
The Progress of Spring . . 684 
Merlin and the Gleam . . 687 
Romney's Remorse . . . 688 

Parnassus 691 

By an Evolutionist . . . 691 

Old Age 692 

Far — far — away . . .692 

Politics 692 

Beautiful City .... 693 
The Roses on the Terrace . 693 

The Play 693 

On one who affected an Ef- 
feminate Manner . . . 693 
to one who ran down the eng- 
LISH 693 

The Snowdrop . . . .693 
The Throstle .... 693 

. The Oak 694 

In Memoriam W. G. Ward . 694 

QUEEN MARY: A DRAMA . . 695 

HAROLD: A DRAMA. 

Show-day at Battle Abbey, 1876 772 
Harold ' • 773 

BECKET 815 

THE FALCON 873 

THE CUP 884 

THE PROMISE OF MAY . . 900 



Vlll 



TABLE OF CONTENTS 



CROSSING THE BAR . . .924 

ADDITIONAL POEMS. 

Timbuctoo 925 

The 'How' and the 'Why' . 929 
The Burial of Love . . .929 

To 930 

Song: 'I' the glooming light' 930 
Song : ' The lintwhite and the 

throstlecock ' ... 930 

Song : ' Every day hath its 

night ' 931 

Hero to Leander .... 931 

The Mystic 932 

The Grasshopper .... 932 
Love, Pride, and Forgetful- 

ness 933 

. Chorus ...... 933 

Lost Hope . . . . .933 

The Tears of Heaven . . . 934 
Love and Sorrow . . . 934 
To a Lady Sleeping . . . 934 
Sonnet : ' Could I outwear my 

present state of woe ' . 934 
Sonnet : ' Though Night hath 
climbed her peak of high- 
EST NOON ' 935 

Sonnet : ' Shall the hag Evil 

die with child of Good ' . 935 
Sonnet : ' The pallid thunder- 
stricken sigh for gain' . 935 

Love 935 

English War-Song . . .936 
National Song .... 937 

Dualisms 937 

The Sea Fairies . . . .937 

Ol p€OJ/T€S 938 

Sonnet : ' O beauty, passing 

beauty ! sweetest sweet ! ' 939 
The Hesperides .... 939 
Rosalind ..... 940 



Song : ' Who can say ' . . 941 

Sonnet, written on hearing of 
the Outbreak of the Polish 
Insurrection . . . 941 
O Darling Room .... 941 
To Christopher North . . 941 
On Cambridge University . . 942 

No More 942 

Anacreontics 942 

A Fragment .... 942 

Sonnet : ' Me my own fate to 

lasting sorrow doometh ' . 943 
Sonnet : ' Check every out- 
flash, EVERY RUDER SALLY' 943 

Sonnet : ' There are three 
things which fill my heart 
with sighs ' 943 

The Skipping-Rope . . . 943 
The New Timon axd the Poets 944 
Lines, contributed to ' The 

Manchester Athenaeum ' . 944 
Stanzas, contributed to ' The 

Keepsake ' . . . . 944 
Britons, guard your own . . 945 
Additional Verses to ' God 
save the Queen ' . . 946 

The War 946 

The Ringlet . . . . 946 
Lines: Long as the heart beats 
life within her breast . 947 

1865-1866 947 

Stanza, contributed to the 
' Shakespearean Show- 
Book' 947 

Compromise 947 

Experiment in Sapphic Metre . 948 
Stanza, contributed to 
* Pearl' 948 

INDEX OF FIRST LINES . . 951 
INDEX OF TITLES . . . 957 



LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 



ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON (Photogravure) Frontispiece 

JUVENILIA ARTIST 

Claribel 

' Where Claribel low-lieth 
The breezes pause and die ' 

Mariana 

'Her tears fell with the dews at even; 
Her tears fell ere the dews were dried ' 

Recollections of the Arabian Nights 

1 For it was in the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid ' 

Ode to Memory 

* To . . . dimple in the dark of rushy coves 
The Deserted House 

' Life and Thought have gone away 
Side by side ' 

The Ballad of Oriana 

'I to thee my troth did plight, 
Oriana ' 

Adeline 

' The low-tongued Orient ' 

THE LADY OF SHALOTT, AND OTHER POEMS 
The Lady of Shalott 

' "The curse is come upon me," cried 
The Lady of Shalott ' 

Mariana in the South 

* Low on her knees herself she cast, 

Before Our Lady ' 

The Two Voices 

' I wondered, while I paced along ; 
The woods were fill'd so full with song 

The Miller's Daughter 

' And rose, and, with a silent grace 

Approaching, press' d you heart to heart ' 

(Enone 

1 Troas and Ilion's column'd citadel ■ 
The Sisters 

1 The wind is blowing in turret and tree ' 
The Palace of Art 

'In a clear-wall'd city on the sea, 
Near gilded organ-pipes, her hair 

Wound with white roses, slept Saint Cecily ' 

'Mythic Uther's deeply- wounded son ■ 



T. Creswick, R. A. 

J. E. Millais, A.R.A. 

W. H. Hunt 

27 Cresiciclc, R.A. 

W. Mulready, R. A, 

W. H. Hunt 
J. D. Smillie 

W. H. Hunt 

D. G, Rossetti 

Thomas Moran 

J. E. Millais, A. R. A. 
C. Stanfield, R. A. 
J. E. Millais, A. R. A. 



D. G. Rossetti 
D. G. Rossetti 



36 

43 

46 
49 
53 



56 
57 



LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 



The May Queen 

1 It is the last New-year that I shall ever see ■ 



1 1 thought that it was fancy, and I listen' d in 
my bed ' 

The Lotos-Eaters 

' O, rest ye, brother mariners, we will not wan- 
der more ' 



J. C. Hors 
J. C. Hors 



y, A. R. A. 

y, A.R.A. 



C. Stanjield, R. A. 
W. L. Sheppard 



A Dream of Fair Women 

1 Dislodging pinnacle and parapet ' 

' Kneeling, with one arm about her king, 

Drew forth the poison with her balmy breath ' J. E. Millais, A. R. A 
The Death of the Old Year 

' Toll ye the church-bell sad and slow * 
The Goose 

1 Quoth she, " The devil take the goose, 
And God forget the stranger " ' 

ENGLISH IDYLS AND OTHER POEMS 
Morte d' Arthur 

' An arm 
Rose up from out the bosom of the lake, 
Clothed in white samite ' 

1 And call'd him by his name, complaining loud, 
And dropping bitter tears against his brow 
Striped with dark blood ' 

The Gardener's Daughter 

1 The gray cathedral towers, 
Across a hazy glimmer of the west ' 
Dora 

* I have been to blame — to blame. I have 

kill'd my son, 
I have kill'd him — but I loved him — my 

dear son ' J. E. Mittais, A. R. A 

Edwin Morris 

1 When men knew how to build, upon a rock 
With turrets lichen-gilded like a rock ' 

The Talking Oak 

1 And I have shadow' d many a group 
Of beauties that were bom 
In teacup-times of hood and hoop, 
Or while the patch was worn ' 

' She, Dryad-like, shall wear 
Alternate leaf and acorn-ball ' 

Ulysses 

* There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail; 
There gloom the dark, broad seas " 

Locksley Hall 

' Comrades, leave me here a little, while as yet 
't is early morn ' 



J. E. Millais, A.R.A. 
W. Mulready, R. A. 

D. Maclise, R.A. 
t 
D. Maclise, R. A. 

W. P. Snyder 



C. Starifield, R. A. 

J. E. Millais, A.R.A. 
J. E. Millais, A. R. A. 

C. Stanfield, R. A. 



'Many an evening by the waters did we watch 
the stately ships ' 

' Baby lips will laugh me down ; my latest rival 

brings thee rest. 
Baby ringers, waxen touches, press me from 
the mother's breast ' 



65 

67 
71 
73 
76 

81 



89 



94 



103 

110 
113 

117 



W. J. Hennessy 


121 


W. J. Hennessy 


123 


W. J. Hennessy 


125 



LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 



XI 



GODIVA 

1 Then fled she to her inmost bower, 
there 
Unclasp' d the wedded eagles of her belt ' 

The Day-Dream 

' The page has caught her hand in his ; 
Her lips are sever'd as to speak ' 

1 " How say you ? we have slept, my lords, 
My beard has grown into my lap " ' 

Saint Agnes' Eve 

1 My breath to heaven like vapor goes ; 
May my soul follow soon ' 

Sir Galahad 

1 Then by some secret shrine I ride ; 
I hear a voice, but none are there ' 

Will Waterproof's Lyrical Monologue 
i But whither would my fancy go ? 

How out of place she makes 
The violet of a legend blow 
Among the chops and steaks ' 

The Lord of Burleigh 

1 " Bring the dress and put it on her, 
That she wore when she was wed " ' 

The Beggar Maid 

' In robe and crown the king stept down, 
To meet and greet her on her way ' 

* Break, Break, Break' 
* Break, break, break, 

At the foot of thy crags, O Sea ! ' 



and 



THE PRINCESS : A Medley 

1 The Abbey-ruin in the park ' 

1 Set in a gleaming river's crescent-curve ' 

'The Lady Blanche's daughter where she 
stood, 
Melissa, with her hand upon the lock ' 

' Melissa shook her doubtful curls, and thought 
He scarce would prosper ' 

' The splendor falls on castle walls 
And snowy summits old in story ' 

' They to and fro 
Fluctuated, as flowers in storm, some red, 
some pale ' 

1 All her fair length upon the ground she lay ; 
And at her head a follower of the camp ' 

1 Like summer tempest came her tears — 
" Sweet my child, I live for thee " ' 

'Then felt it sound and whole from head to 

foot, 
And hugg'd and never hugg'd it close enough ' 

1 "I shall die to-night. 
Stoop down and seem to kiss me ere I die " ' 



W. H. Hunt 


127 


J.E. Millais, A, R. A. 


129 


J. E. Millais, A. R. A. 


131 



J. E. Millais, A. R. A. 135 

D. G. Rossetii 137 

W. Mulready, R. A. 139 

J. E. Millais, A. R. A. 143 

W. H. Hunt 147 

C. Stanfield, R. A. 152 



F. B. Schell 


154 


Edmund H. Garrett 


161 


Frederick Dielman 


169 


Frederick Dielman 


173 


S. Colman 


177 


Frederick Dielman 


187 


Frederick Dielman 


191 


Sol Eytinge, Jr. 


199 


Frederick Dielman 


203 


A. Fredericks 


209 



Xll 



LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 



* "A dream 
That once was mine ! what woman taught 
you this?" ■ 

' " You — tell us what we are " ' 

IN MEMORIAM A. H. H. 

Arthur Henry Hallam 

From a painting exhibited at South Kensington^ 
1867, owned by Colonel Farndby Lennard 

I Fair ship, that from the Italian shore 

Sailest the placid ocean-plains ' 

4 They laid him by the pleasant shore, 
And in the* hearing of the wave ' 
From a photograph 

1 Streams that swift or slow 
Draw down JEonian hills ' 

I I found a wood with thorny boughs ' 

' Thro' all the dewy tassell'd wood ' 

' You will see the Rhine, 
And those fair hills I sail'd below ' 

' There rolls the deep ' 
MAUD AND OTHER POEMS 

^MAUD J A MONODRAMA 

' I hate the dreadful hollow behind the little 
wood ' 

* She came to the village church, 
And sat by a pillar alone ' 

4 Come into the garden, Maud ' 
The Brook 

' I come from haunts of coot and hern, 
I make a sudden sally 
And sparkle out among'the fern ' 

1 1 steal by lawns and grassy plots, 
I slide by hazel covers ' 

ENOCH ARDEN AND OTHER POEMS 
Enoch Arden 

1 Beating it in upon his weary brain, 
As tho' it were the burthen of a song, 
"Not to tell her, never to let her know " ' 

1 He thrice had pluck'd a life 
From the dread sweep of the down-streaming 
seas ■ 

* Forward she started with a happy cry, 
And laid the feeble infant in his arms ' 

1 Then Philip put the boy and girl to school, 
And bought them needful books ' 

1 Then Philip coming somewhat closer spoke : 
"Annie, there is a thing upon my mind " ■ 

'A shipwreck'd sailor, waiting for a sail ' 

* " Uphold me, Father, in my_ loneliness 

A little longer ! aid me, give me strength " J 

Aylmer's Field 
Aylmer Hall 



Frederick Dielman 
A. B. Frost 



213 
215 



217 



BirJcet Foster 


221 




225 


Edmund H. Garrett 


229 


BirJcet Foster 


237 


J. A. Brown 


243 


H. Bolton Jones 


249 


Edmund H. Garrett 


255 



G. Perkins 


260 


Sol Eytinge, Jr. 


267 


Birket Foster 


275 


Charles Cop eland 


283 


W. H. Richards 


285 



J. LaFarge 


293 


Elihu Vedder 


295 


W. J. Hennessy 


297 


F. 0. C. Barley 


301 


J. LaFarge 


303 


J. LaFarge 


306 


J . LaFarge 


311 


Edmund H. Garrett 


319 



LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 



xin 



Sea Dreams 

1 "Idream'd 
Of such a tide swelling toward the land " ' 

The Grandmother 

' Seventy years ago, my darling, seventy years 
ago' 

The Sailor Boy 

1 " God help me ! save I take my part 
Of danger on the roaring sea " ' 

The Voice and the Peak 

' Hast thou no voice, O Peak ' 

THE WINDOW; or THE SONG OF THE WRENS 

* The home of my love ' 

THE LOVER'S TALE 

'She was dark-hair'd, dark-eyed ' 

1 Lower down 
Spreads out a little lake ' 

' In the heart of the great forest ' 

IDYLLS OF THE KING 
Dedication 

Prince Albert 

From a photograph 
The Coming of Arthur 

1 " A naked babe, and rode to Merlin's feet " ' 

THE BOUND TABLE 
The Marriage of Geraint 

' And high above a piece of turret stair, 
Worn by the feet that now were silent, wound 
Bare to the sun ' 

" 'First, thou thyself, with damsel and with dwarf, 
Shalt ride to Arthur's court " ' 

Geraint and Enid 

' " Friend, let her eat ; the damsel is so faint " ' 

1 He turn'd his face 
And kiss'd her climbing ' 

Merlin and Vivien 

' At Merlin's feet the wily Vivien lay ' 
1 " I took his brush and blotted out the bird ' " 
1 " I have made his glory mine " ' 
Lancelot and Elaine 

1 The lily maid Elaine 
Lifted her eyes and read his lineaments ' 

' Day by day she past 
In either twilight ghost-like to and fro ' 

4 She did not seem as dead, 
But fast asleep ' 

Guinevere 

' They rode to the divided way, 
There kiss'd, and parted weeping ' " 

'He paused, and in the pause she crept an inch 
Nearer, and laid her hands about his feet ' 



J. D. Woodward 329 



J. E. Millais, A. R. A, 335 



Edmund H. Garrett 


341 


F. B. Schell 


351 


W. St. J. Harper 


357 


W. St. J. Harper 


361 


E. W. Longfellow 


371 


G. Perkins 


375 



Gustave Dore 



387 



395 



Gustave Dore 


429 


Gustave Dore 


435 


Gustave Dore 


443 


Gustave Dore 


453 


Gustave Dore 


469 


Gustave Dore 


477 


Gustave Dore 


486 


Gustave Dore 


491 


Gustave Dor6 


503 


Gustave Dore 


509 


Gustave Dore 


555 


Gustave Dor& 


563 



xiv LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 

BALLADS AND OTHER POEMS 
Columbus (see page 603) 

Christopher Columbus 577 

From a painting in the Ministry of Marine at 
Madrid 

The Sisters 

' We left her, happy each in each ' Mary Hallock Foote 591 

To Victor Hugo 

Victor Hugo 612 

From a photograph 
To Dante 

Dante Alighieri S. £. Kilburn 615 

TIRESIAS AND OTHER POEMS 
To E. Fitzgerald 

Edward Fitzgerald 617 

From a photograph 
The Wreck 

' The lost sea-home ■ J, Davidson 625 

The Charge of the Heavy Brigade at Balaclava 
* The trumpet, the gallop, the charge, and the 

might of the fight ' Winslow Homer 641 

Locksley Hall Sixty Years after, etc. 

1 Late, my grandson ! half the morning have I 

paced these sandy tracts ' Thomas Moran 649 

1 Sinking with the sinking wreck ■ G. Perkins 651 

1 In this gap between the sandhills, whence you 

see the Locksley tower, 
'Here we met, our latest meeting — Amy — sixty 

years ago ' W. J. Hennessy 

DEMETER AND OTHER POEMS 

On the Jubilee of Queen Victoria 

Queen Victoria (1887) 659 

From a photograph 

The Ring 

James Russell Lowell 669 ^ 

From a photograph 
The Progress of Spring 

i She comes on waste and wood, 
On farm and field ' J- A. Brown 685 

QUEEN MARY: A Drama 

Queen Mary 695 

From a portrait in the National Gallery painted, 
when she was twenty-eight years of age, by 
Joannes Corvus 

King Philip II. 707 

From the painting by Alonso Sanchez Coello in 
the National Portrait Gallery 

Gate-house, Westminster 721 

From a photograph 
Whitehall 731 

From ' Londina IllustrataJ London, 1819 



LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 



xv 



Thomas Cranmer, Archbishop of Canterbury 
From a portrait in the National Portrait Gallery, 
painted, when he was fifty-seven years of age, by 
G. Fliccius 

Queen Elizabeth 

From HoWs engraving of an original portrait in 
Queen Victorians collection in St. James's Palace 

Sir William Cecil 

From Freeman's engraving of the original portrait 
by Marc Gheeraedts, in the National Portrait 
Gallery 



HAROLD : A Drama 
Lord Lytton 

From a photograph 
Stamford Bridge 

From a photograph 
Battle Abbey 

From a photograph 



BECKET 



Lord Selborne (Roundell Palmer) 

From a photograph 
Sir Henry Irving as Becket 

From a photograph 
Ellen Terry as Rosamund 

From a photograph 

1 "The Mother Church of England, 
My Canterbury ' 

From a photograph 
Transept of Martyrdom, Canterbury Cathedral 

From a photograph 



THE FALCON 



1 Get the Count to give me his falcon, 
And that will make me well ' " 



W. H. Low 



FULL-PAGE PHOTOGRAVURES 



747 

767 
771 

773 
803 
813 

815 
831 

857 

865 



873 



" Sir Galahad " G. F. Watts, R. A. 136 

The Duke of Wellington 290 

From an original painting in the National Gallery, 
Dublin 
Sir Arthur Sullivan 358 

From a photograph 
" The Beguiling of Merlin " Sir Edward Burnt-Jones 484 

" Elaine " Toby E. Rosenthal 510 

Sir Henry Havelock 598 

From the original painting by William Crabb in 
the possession of J. C. Marshman 
George Romney 690 

From the unfinished portrait, painted by himself 
in 1782, in the National Portrait Gallery 
Reginald Pole ; Cardinal, and Archbishop of Canterbury 760 

From the painting in the National Portrait Gallery 



BIOGKAPHICAL SKETCH 

Alfred Tennyson was born August 6, 1809, at Somersby, a little village 
in Lincolnshire, England. His father was the rector of the parish ; his mo- 
ther, whose maiden name was Elizabeth Fytche, and whose character he 
touched in his poem ' Isabel,' was the daughter of a clergyman ; and one of his 
brothers, who later took the name of Charles Turner, was also a clergyman. 
The religious nature in the poet was a constant element in his poetry, and 
with it may be named an abiding love of the natural world, which yielded its 
secrets to an observation which was singularly keen, and a philosophic reflec- 
tion which made Tennyson reveal in his poetry an apprehension of the laws 
of life, akin to what Darwin was disclosing in his contemporaneous career. 

In his early 'Ode to Memory/ Tennyson has translated into verse the con- 
sciousness which woke in him in the secluded fields of his Lincolnshire birth- 
place. For companionship he had the large circle of his own home, for he 
was one of eight brothers and four sisters ; and in that little society there was 
not only the miniature world of sport and study, but a very close companion- 
ship with the large world of imagination. They had their jousts and tourna- 
ments, their revivification of knightly deeds in their sports, and Alfred was 
the improvisatore who gathered the other children about him and regaled 
them with tales of wonder, drawn partly from his reading, partly from his 
own fertile fancy. 

He had, moreover, the favoring poetic sympathy of two at any rate in the 
circle. From very childhood he lisped in numbers, for the numbers came on 
every wind, and his brothers Frederick and Charles, the one two years, the 
other one year his senior, were also given to poetic composition, so that after 
Charles and Alfred had been at school in Louth a short time, the brothers put 
their verses together and induced the local booksellers and printers, Messrs. 
Jackson, to publish the book under the title Poems by Two Brothers. Fred- 
erick Tennyson indeed contributed four poems ; the rest were divided between 
Charles and Alfred, but in the absence of exact data, the present Lord Tenny- 
son, though he had memoranda as well as the memory of his uncles to rely 
upon, was unable, when he reprinted the volume sixty years after its first 
publication, to determine exactly the authorship of all the poems. The verses, 
which are preserved in the "Cambridge Edition of Tennyson's poems, are inter- 
esting as indicating the careful scholarship of the boys and the impression 
made on them by Byron, rather than for any marked poetic quality. 

Frederick Tennyson was already at Cambridge when Charles and Alfred 
went up to that University in 1828, and were matriculated at Trinity College. 
Alfred Tennyson acquired there, as so many other notable Englishmen, not 
only intellectual discipline, but that close companionship with picked men 
which is engendered by the half monastic seclusion of the English university. 



xviii BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 

There was a company which from its number was dubbed the Apostles, to 
which he found entrance, and here he met men who influenced his early life 
and in a few instances were close companions during his whole career. Chief 
among these was the brilliant Sterling, and others were James Spedding, the 
expositor of Bacon, Trench, afterward Archbishop of Dublin, Richard Monck- 
ton Milnes, better known as Lord Houghton, Dean Alford, W. H. Brookfield 
the intimate friend of Thackeray, J. M. Kemble, and Kinglake, the author of 
Eothen and historian of the Crimean War. Among these men, growing into 
manhood during the stirring times of Reform, Tennyson drew in the long 
breaths of political freedom and loyalty to the highest ideals of English life, 
which were later to find expression in Maud and the historical dramas. He 
was under the influence also of Maurice, whose friendship was a lifelong in- 
spiration to him ; and perhaps more potent than all other influences was that 
which sprang from his intimacy with Arthur Hallam. 

• This young collegian, a son of the historian, was looked upon as a man of 
great promise who had already indeed demonstrated his power by writings of 
a mature order. His friendship with Tennyson brought him to the poet's 
home, and he became engaged to Tennyson's sister Emily. The two men 
shared their studies and hopes and dreams, and when in 1830 Tennyson pub- 
lished Poems chiefly Lyrical, Hallam came forward with a review of the vol- 
ume in The Englishman's Magazine. In 1832 the volume was followed by 
Poems, by Alfred Tennyson, and then there was a silence of ten years. Hallam 
died in 1833, and his death seems to have so stirred the depths of the poet's 
nature that he retired into a life almost of seclusion in which he confronted 
the problems of life and eternity much as many a reformer or preacher has 
girded up his loins in the wilderness. 

It must not be supposed that this decade was one of brooding alone. At 
first indeed, in the privacy of the Somersby rectory he devoted himself with 
systematic industry to study rather than to composition. Once in a while he 
used his little hoard of savings in a visit to London to see his college friends 
living there, and he made a journey also into the Lake country. Yet he could 
not long withhold himself from his vocation, and little by little he showed 
poems to his friends and received their criticism. In 1842 appeared a fuller 
volume of Poems, in 1847 The Princess was published, and in 1850 appeared 
the great elegy In Memoriam A. H. H. , which set the seal upon his poetic re- 
putation. ** * 

His livelihood, during these years, had been mainly a small sum which had 
come from his grandfather, his father having died in 1831, but now there was 
sufficient security in the income from his writings to enable him to renew an 
engagement with Emily Sellwood, whose younger sister had married Charles 
Tennyson, and who herself on that occasion was bridesmaid, with Alfred Ten- 
nyson as groomsman. The marriage took place in the same month that In 
Memoriam was published, and the wedded life which followed was the great 
anchorage of the poet's soul. In after life he said : * The peace of God came 
into my life before the altar when I wedded her.' He testified of his affection 
when he published the lyrical dedication to the Enoch Arden volume, begin- 
ning : 

' Dear, near and true, —no truer Time himself 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH xix 



and also the lines 'June bracken and heather' which introduce the (Enone 
volume. The same year Tennyson was made Poet Laureate in successorship 
to Wordsworth. 

Tennyson regarded his post as Poet Laureate in the light of a high poetic 
and patriotic ardor. When he was meditating his first laureate poem ' To the 
Queen/ he was thinking especially of a stanza in which ' the empire of Words- 
worth should be asserted : for he was a representative Poet Laureate, such a 

poet as kings should honor, and such an one as would do honor to kings ; 

making the period of a reign famous by the utterance of memorable words 
concerning that period.' The laurel * greener from the brows of him that ut- 
ter' d nothing base/ was indeed worn with dignity and grace, and in the Ode 
on the Death of the Duke of Wellington, and the spirited ' Britons, guard your 
own/ 'The Third of February/ 'Hands all round/ and 'The Charge of the 
Light Brigade/ Tennyson showed the passion of the English patriot in a man- 
ner which has been neither echoed nor eclipsed in the verses which in a similar 
spirit have been contributed by Rudyard Kipling in recent years to The 
Times. But it was in Maud that Tennyson concentrated the feeling which 
was roused in his nature by the compromise which he believed the commercial 
spirit of his day was seeking to effect between national honor and national 
prosperity ; and it is not strange that this poem, with its almost incoherent 
cries, should have seemed to many of his countrymen as almost the utterance 
of an insane man. 

The record of Tennyson's career from this time forward is marked by the 
successive publication of his works. He changed his home more than once, 
partly in obedience to an almost morbid fear of intrusion ; but a family grew 
up about him, and his domestic life was one of great serenity and beauty. He 
travelled little out of his own country, and he was not greatly given to letter 
writing ; but he numbered amongst devoted friends some of the greatest Eng- 
lishmen of his time. His son has printed the letters which passed between 
him and the Queen, showing how genuine and deep was the emotion which 
each excited in the other. He was warmly attached to Robert Browning; 
the Duke of Argyll was an intimate companion, and Edward Fitz Gerald, with 
his whimsical hero worship, laid his tribute with affectionate constancy at 
Tennyson's feet. 

When in later life he was now and then a figure in London society, he cared 
most for the companionship which, in the Metaphysical Society, brought him 
in close contact with Dean Stanley, Cardinal Manning, James Martineau, Ed- 
mund Lushington, and many others among ecclesiastics, Carpenter, Huxley, 
Tyndall and other scientists, and Froude, Bagehot, Pattison, Harrison, Hut ton, 
men of letters and learning. 

The Idylls of the King, published in 1859, a less complete group than that 
now included under the title, continued his great poetic line, which was also 
in its purpose an epitome of the greater England of his soul's allegiance, but 
the most notable turn in his poetic career was when, in 1875, nearly fifty years 
after his earliest venture in verse, he published his drama of Queen Mary. 
He had no thought of writing what are known as closet dramas. The dra- 
matic instinct in him was powerful, even though it had thus far shown itself 



xx BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 

mainly in lyric form, and from this time forward he gave the "best of his 
power to writing for the stage. With slight exceptions, these dramas are in- 
terpretations of English history. They are serious studies, and a serious at- 
tempt was made to give them proper stage presentation ; but the conditions of 
the theatre in England and it may be said also Tennyson's too archaic concep- 
tion of treatment seemed to stand in the way of anything like popular recog- 
nition. 

In 1884 the Queen raised him to the peerage, to which twice before he had 
been invited, and he became Baron of Aldworth and Farringford. The eleva- 
tion was in the direct line of English tradition, and the nobility of the king- 
dom was enriched by his succession. He continued to publish until his death. 
Indeed, the final volume of his poems was in press at the time of his death, 
which occurred October 7, 1892. He was buried in the 'Poet's Corner ' of 
Westminster Abbey, on the 12th of the same month. 



TO THE QUEEN 

Revered, beloved — O you that hold 

A nobler office upon earth 

Than arms, or power of brain, or birth 
Could give the warrior kings of old, 

Victoria, — since your Royal grace 
To one of less desert allows 
This laurel greener from the brows 

Of him that utter 'd nothing base ; 

And should your greatness, and the care 
That yokes with empire, yield you time 
To make demand of modern rhyme 

If aught of ancient worth be there; 

Then — while a sweeter music wakes, 
And thro 1 wild March the throstle calls, 
Where all about your palace-walls 

The sun-lit ahnond-blosso7n shakes — 

Take, Madam, this poor book of song; 
For tho' the faults were thick as dust 
In vacant chambers, I could trust 

Your kindness. May you rule us long, 

And leave us rulers of your blood 
As noble till the latest day ! 
May children of our children say, 
i She wrought her people lasting good; 

4 Her court was pure ; her life serene ; 
God gave her peace; her land reposed ; 
A thousand claims to reverence closed 
In her as Mother, Wife, and Queen; 



TO THE QUEEN 



* And statesmen at her council met 
Who knew the seasons when to take 
Occasion by the hand, and make 
The bounds of freedom wider yet 

i By shaping some august decree 

Which kept her throne unshaken still, 
Broad-based upon her people's will, 
And compassed by the inviolate sea? 

March, 185 1. 




' Where Claribel low-lieth 
The breezes pause and die ' 



JUVENILIA 



CLARIBEL 

A MELODY 

I 

Where Claribel low-lieth 
The breezes pause and die, 
Letting the rose-leaves fall ; 
But the solemn oak-tree sigheth, 
Thick-leaved, ambrosial, 
With an ancient melody 
Of an inward agony, 
Where Claribel low-lieth 



ii 
At eve the beetle boometh 

Athwart the thicket lone ; 
At noon the wild bee humm'eth 

About the moss'd headstone ; 
At midnight the moon cometh, 

And looketh down alone. 
Her song the lintwhite swelleth, 
The clear- voiced mavis dwelleth 

The callow throstle lispeth. 
The slumbrous wave outwelleth, 

The babbling runnel crispeth/ 
The hollow grot replieth 

Where Claribel low-lieth 



JUVENILIA 



NOTHING WILL DIE 

When will the stream be aweary of 
flowing 

Under my eye ? 
When will the wind be aweary of 
blowing 

Over the sky ? 
When will the clouds be aweary of 

fleeting ? 
When will the heart be aweary of 
beating ? 

And nature die ? 
Never, O, never, nothing will die ; 
The stream flows, 
The wind blows, 
The cloud fleets, 
The heart beats, 
Nothing will die. 

Nothing will die ; 
All things will change 
Thro' eternity. 
T is the world's winter ; 
Autumn and summer 
Are gone long ago ; 
Earth is dry to the centre. 
But spring, a new comer. 
A spring rich and strange, 
Shall make the winds blow 
Round and round, 
Thro' and thro', 

Here and there, 

Till the air 
And the ground 
Shall be fill'd with life anew. 

The world was never made ; 
It will change, but it will not 

fade. 
So let the wind range; 
For even and morn 

Ever will be 

Thro' eternity. 
Nothing was born ; 
Nothing will die ; 
All things will change. 

ALL THINGS WILL DIE 

Clearly the blue river chimes in its 
flowing 

Under my eye ; 
Warmly and broadly the south winds 
are blowing 
Over the sky. 



One after another the white clouds 

are fleeting ; 
Every heart this May morning in j oy- 
ance is beating 

Full merrily ; 
Yet all things must die. 
The stream will cease to flow ; 
The wind will cease to blow ; *o 
The clouds will cease to fleet ; 
The heart will cease to beat ; 
For all things must die. 

All things must die. 
Spring will come never more. 

O, vanity ! 
Death waits at the door. 
See ! our friends are all forsaking 
The wine and the merrymaking. 
We are call'd — we must go. 20 
Laid low, very low, 
In the dark we must lie. 
The merry glees are still ; 
The voice of the bird 
Shall no more be heard, 
Nor the wind on the hill. 

O, misery ! 
Hark ! death is calling 
While I speak to ye, 
The jaw is falling, 30 

The red cheek paling, 
The strong limbs failing ; 
Ice with the warm blood mixing ; 
The eyeballs fixing. 
Nine times goes the passing bell : 
Ye merry souls, farewell. 

The old earth 

Had a birth, 

As all men know, 

Long ago. 40 

And the old earth must die. 
So let the warm winds range, 
And the blue wave beat the 

shore ; 
For even and morn 
Ye will never see 
Thro' eternity. 
All things were born. 
Ye will come never more, 
For all things must die. 

LEONINE ELEGIACS 

Low-flowing breezes are roaming 
the broad valley dimm'd in the 
gloaming ; 

Thoro' the black-stemm'd pines only 
the far river shines. 



SUPPOSED CONFESSIONS 



Creeping thro' blossomy rushes and 
bowers of rose-blowing bushes, 

Down by the poplar tall rivulets bab- 
ble and fall. 

Barketh the shepherd-dog cheerly ; the 
grasshopper carolleth clearly ; 

Deeply the wood-dove coos; shrilly 
the owlet halloos ; 

Winds creep ; dews fall chilly : in 
her first sleep earth breathes 
stilly : 

Over the pools in the burn water- 
gnats murmur and mourn. 

Sadly the far kine loweth ; the glim- 
mering water outfloweth ; 

Twin peaks shadow'd with pine slope 
to the dark hyaline. 

Low-throned Hesper is stayed be- 
tween the two peaks ; but the 
Naiad 

Throbbing in mild unrest holds him 
beneath in her breast. 

The ancient poetess singe th that Hes- 
perus all things bringeth, 

Smoothing the wearied mind : bring 
me my love, Rosalind. 

Thou comest morning or even ; she 
cometh not morning or even. 

False-eyed Hesper, unkind, where is 
my sweet Rosalind ? 



SUPPOSED CONFESSIONS 

OF A SECOND-RATE SENSITIVE MIND 

God ! my God ! have mercy now. 

1 faint, I fall. Men say that Thou 
Didst die for me, for such as me, 
Patient of ill, and death, and scorn, 
And that my sin was as a thorn 
Among the thorns that girt Thy brow, 
Wounding Thy soul. — That even 

now, 
In this extremest misery 
Of ignorance, I should require 
A sign ! and if a bolt of fire 10 

Would rive the slumbrous summer 

noon 
While I do pray to Thee alone, 
Think my belief would stronger grow ! 
Is not my human pride brought low ? 
The boastings of my spirit still ? 
The joy I had in my free-will 
All cold, and dead, and corpse-like 

grown ? 



And what is left to me but Thou, * 
And faith in Thee ? Men pass me by ; 
Christians with happy countenances — 
And children all seem full of Thee ! 
And women smile with saint-like 

glances 22 

Like Thine own mother's when she 

bow'd 
Above Thee, on that happy morn 
When angels spake to men aloud, 
And Thou and peace to earth were 

born. 
Good- will to me as well as all — 
I one of them ; my brothers they ; 
Brothers in Christ — a world of peace 
And confidence, day after day ; 30 
And trust and hope till things should 

cease, 
And then one Heaven receive us all. 

How sweet to have a common faith ! 
To hold a common scofti of death ! 
And at a burial to hear 
The creaking cords which wound and 

eat 
Into my human heart, whene'er 
Earth goes to earth, with grief, not 

fear, 
With hopeful grief, were passing 

sweet ! 

Thrice happy state again to be 40 
The trustful infant on the knee, 
Who lets his rosy fingers play 
About his mother's neck, and knows 
Nothing beyond his mother's eyes ! 
They comfort him by night and day ; 
They light his little life alway ; 
He hath no thought of coming woes ; 
He hath no care of life or death ; 
Scarce outward signs of joy arise, 
Because the Spirit of happiness 50 
And perfect rest so inward is ; 
And loveth so his innocent heart, 
Her temple and her place of birth, 
Where she Avould ever wish to dwell, 
Life of the fountain there, beneath 
Its salient springs, and far apart, 
Hating to wander out on earth, 
Or breathe into the hollow air, 
Whose chillness would make visible 
Her subtil, warm, and golden breath, 
Which mixing with the infant's blood, 
Fulfils him with beatitude. 63 

0, sure it is a special care 
Of God, to fortify from doubt, 



JUVENILIA 



To arm in proof, and guard about 
With triple-mailed trust, and clear 
Delight, the infant's dawning year. 

Would that my gloomed fancy were 
As thine, my mother, when with 

brows 
Propt on thy knees, my hands upheld 
In thine, I list en' d to thy vows, 71 
For me outpour'd in holiest prayer — 
For me unworthy ! — and beheld 
Thy mild deep eyes upraised, that 

knew 
The beauty and repose of faith, 
And the clear spirit shining thro'. 
O, wherefore do we grow awry 
From roots which strike so deep ? 

why dare 
Paths in the desert ? Could not I 
Bow myself down, where thou hast 

knelt, „ 80 

To the earth — until the ice would 

melt 
Here, and I feel as thou hast felt ? 
What devil had the heart to scathe 
Flowers thou hadst rear'd — to brush 

the dew 
From thine own lily, when thy grave 
Was deep, my mother, in the clay ? 
Myself ? Is it thus ? Myself ? Had I 
So little love for thee ? But why 
Prevaird not thy pure prayers ? Why 

pray 
To one who heeds not, who can save 
But will not? Great in faith, and 

strong 91 

Against the grief of circumstance 
Wert thou, and yet unheard. What 

if 
Thou pleadest still, and seest me drive 
Thro' utter dark a full-sail'd skiff, 
Unpiloted i' the echoing dance 
Of reboant whirlwinds, stooping low 
Unto the death, not sunk ! I know 
At matins and at evensong, 
That thou, if thou wertyet alive, 100 
In deep and daily prayers wouldst 

strive 
To reconcile me with thy God. 
Albeit, my hope is gray, and cold 
At heart, thou wouldest murmur 

still — 
* Bring this lamb back into Thy fold, 
My Lord, if so it be Thy will.' 
Wouldst tell me I must brook the rod 
And chastisement of human pride ; 



That pride, the sin of devils, stood, 
Betwixt me and the light of God ; no 
That hitherto I had defied 
And had re j ected God — that grace 
Would drop from His o'er-brimming 

love, 
As manna on my wilderness, 
If I would pray — that God would 

move 
And strike the hard, hard rock, and 

thence, 
Sweet in their utmost bitterness, 
Would issue tears of penitence 
Which would keep green hope's life. 

Alas ! 
I think that pride hath now no place 
Nor sojourn in me. I am void, 121 
Dark, formless, utterly destroyed. 

Why not believe then ? Why not yet 
Anchor thy frailty there, where man 
Hath moor'd and rested ? Ask the sea 
At midnight, when the crisp slope 

waves 
After a tempest rib and fret 
The broad-imbased beach, why he 
Slumbers not like a mountain taro ? 
Wherefore his ridges are not curls 130 
And ripples of an inland mere ? 
Wherefore he moaneth thus, nor can 
Draw down into his vexed pools 
All that blue heaven which hues and 

paves 
The other ? I am too forlorn, 
Too shaken : my own weakness fools 
My judgment, and my spirit whirls, 
Moved from beneath with doubt and 

fear. 

' Yet/ said I, in my morn of youth, 
The unsunn'd freshness of my 

strength, 140 

When I went forth in quest of truth, 
' It is man's privilege to doubt, 
If so be that from doubt at length 
Truth may stand forth unmoved of 

change. 
An image with profulgent brows 
And perfect limbs, as from the storm 
Of running fires and fluid range 
Of lawless airs, at last stood out 
This excellence and solid form 
Of constant beauty. For the ox 150 
Feeds in the herb, and sleeps, or fills 
The horned valleys all about, 
And hollows of the fringed hills 



LILIAN 



7 



In summer heats, with placid lows 
Unfearing, till his own blood flows 
About his hoof. And in the flocks 
The lamb rejoiceth in the year, 
And raceth freely with his fere, 
And answers to his mother's calls 159 
From the flower'd furrow. In a time 
Of which he wots not, run short pains 
Thro' his warm heart ; and then, from 

whence 
He knows not, on his light there falls 
A shadow ; and his native slope, 
Where he was wont to leap and climb, 
Floats from his sick and filmed eyes, 
And something in the darkness draws 
His forehead earthward, and he dies. 
Shall man live thus, in joy and hope 
As a young lamb, who cannot dream, 
Living, but that he shall live on ? 171 
Shall we not look into the laws 
Of life and death, and things that 

seem, 
And things that be, and analyze 
Our double nature, and compare 
All creeds till we have found the one, 
If one there be? ' Ay me ! I fear 
All may not doubt, but everywhere 
Some must clasp idols. Yet, my God, 
Whom call I idol? Let Thy dove 180 
Shadow me over, and my sins 
Be unremember'd, and Thy love 
Enlighten me. O, teach me yet 
Somewhat before the heavy clod 
Weighs on me, and the busy fret 
Of that sharp -headed worm begins 
In the gross blackness underneath. 

. O weary life ! O weary death ! 
O spirit and heart made desolate ! 
O damned vacillating state ! 190 



THE KRAKEN 

Below the thunders of the upper 
deep, 

Far, far beneath in the abysmal sea, 

His ancient, dreamless, uninvaded 
sleep 

The Kraken sleepeth: faintest sun- 
lights flee 

About his shadowy sides ; above him 
swell 

Huge sponges of millennial growth 
and height ; 

And far away into the sickly light, 



From many a wondrous grot and se- 
cret cell 

Unnumber'd and enormous polypi 

Winnow with giant arms the slumber- 
ing green. 

There hath he lain for ages, and will 
lie 

Battening upon huge sea-worms in 
his sleep, 

Until the latter fire shall heat the 
deep ; 

Then once by man and angels to be 
seen, 

In roaring he shall rise and on the sur- 
face die. 



SONG 

The winds, as at their hour of birth, 
Leaning upon the ridged sea, 

Breathed low around the rolling earth 
With mellow preludes, 'We are 
free.' 

The streams, through many a lilied 
row 
Down- carolling to the crisped sea, 
Low-tinkled with a bell-like flow 
Atween the blossoms, ' We are 
free.' 



LILIAN 



Aiky, fairy Lilian, 

Flitting, fairy Lilian, 
When I ask her if she love me 
Clasps her tiny hands above me, 

Laughing all she can ; 
She '11 not tell me if she love me, 

Cruel little Lilian. 



When my passion seeks 
Pleasance in love -sighs, 
She, looking thro' and thro' me 
Thoroughly to undo me, 
Smiling, never speaks : 
So innocent-arch, so cunning-simple 
From beneath her gathered wimple 
Glancing with bfack-beaded eyes. 
Till the lightning laughters dimple 
The baby-roses in her cheeks : 
Then away she fliea 



JUVENILIA 



Pry thee weep, May Lilian ! 
Gaiety without eclipse 

Wearieth me, May Lilian ; 
Thro' my very heart it thrilleth 

When from crimson- threaded lips 
Silver-treble laughter trilleth : 

Pry thee weep, May Lilian ! 



Praying all I can, 
If prayers will not hush thee, 

Airy Lilian, 
Like a rose-leaf I will crush thee, 

Fairy Lilian. 

ISABEL 

Eyes not down-dropt nor over-bright, 
but fed 
With the clear- pointed flame of 

chastity, 
Clear, without heat, undying, tended 
by 
Pure vestal thoughts in the trans- 
lucent fane 
Of her still spirit ; locks not wide-dis- 

pread, 
Madonna-wise on either side her head ; 
Sweet lips whereon perpetually 
did reign 
The summer calm of golden charity, 
Were fixed shadows of thy fixed 
mood, 
Reverend Isabel, the crown and 
head, 
The stately flower of female fortitude, 
Of perfect wifehood and pure 
lowlihead. 

The intuitive decision of a bright 
And thorough-edged intellect to part 
Error from crime ; a prudence to 

withhold ; 
The laws of marriage character' d 
in gold 
Upon the blanched tablets of her 
heart ; 
A love still burning upward, giving 

. light 
To read those laws ; an accent very low 
In blandishment, but a most silver 
flow 
Of subtle-paced counsel in dis- 
tress, 



Right to the heart and brain, tho' un- 
descried, 
Winning its way with extreme 
gentleness 

Thro' all the outworks of suspicious 
pride ; 

A courage to endure and to obey ; 

A hate of gossip parlance, and of 
sway, 

Crown'd Isabel, thro' all her placid 
life, 

The queen of marriage, a most per- 
fect wife. 

The mellow'd reflex of a winter moon ; 

A clear stream flowing with a muddy 

one, 

Till in its onward current it absorbs 

With swifter movement and in 

purer light 
The vexed eddies of its wayward 

brother ; 
A leaning and upbearing parasite, 
Clothing the stem, which else had 
fallen quite, 
With cluster'd flower-bells and am- 
brosial orbs 
Of rich fruit-bunches leaning on 

each other — 
Shadow forth thee : — the world 
hath not another 
(Tho' all her fairest forms are types of 

thee, 
And thou of God in thy great charity) 
Of such a finish'd chasten'd purity. 

MARIANA 

' Mariana in the moated grange.' 

Measure for Measure. 

With blackest moss the flower-plots 
Were thickly crusted, one and all ; 
The rusted nails fell from the knots 
That held the pear to the gable- 
wall. 
The broken sheds look'd sad and 
strange : 
Unlif ted was the clinking latch ; 
Weeded and worn the ancient 
thatch 
Upon the lonely moated grange. 

She only said, ' My life is dreary, 
He cometh not,' she said ; 10 
She said, ' I am aweary, aweary, 
* I would that I were dead ! ' 



MARIANA 




' Her tears fell with the dews at even ; 
Her tears fell ere the dews were dried ' 



Her tears fell with the dews at 
even: 
Her tears fell ere the dews were 
dried ; 
She could not look on the sweet hea- 
ven, 
Either at morn or eventide. 
After the flitting of the bats, 
When thickest dark did trance the 

sky, 
She drew her casement-curtain by, 
And glanced athwart the glooming 
flats. 20 

She only said, 'The night is 
dreary, 
He cometh not,' she said ; 
She said, ' I am aweary, aweary, 
I would that I were dead ! ' 



Upon the middle of the night, 
Waking she heard the night-fowl 
crow ; 
The cock sung out an hour ere light ; 

From the dark fen the oxen's low 
Came to her ; without hope of change, 
In sleep she seem'd to walk for- 
lorn, ^ 3c 
Till cold winds woke the- gray-eyed 
morn • . 
About the lonely moated grange. 

She only said, ' The day is dreary, 

He cometh not,' she said ; 
She said, ' I am aweary, aweary, 
I would that I were dead ! * 

About a stone-cast from the wall 
A sluice with blacken'd waters slept. 



IO 



JUVENILIA 



And o'er it many, round and small, 

The eluster'd marish-mosses crept. 

Hard by a poplar shook alway, 41 

All silver- green with gnarled bark : 

For leagues no other tree did mark 

The level waste, the rounding gray. 

She only said, ' My life is dreary, 

He cometh not/ she said ; 
She said, ' I am aweary, aweary, 
I would that I were dead ! ' 

And ever when the moon was low, 
And the shrill winds were up and 
away, 50 

In the white curtain, to and fro, 

She saw the gusty shadow sway. 
But when the moon was very low, 
And wild winds bound within their 

cell, 
The shadow of the poplar fell 
Upon her bed, across her brow. 

She only said, 'The night is 
dreary, 
He cometh not,' she said ; 
She said, 'I am aweary, aweary, 
I would that I were dead ! ' 60 

All day within the dreamy house, 

The doors upon their hinges creak'd ; 
The blue fly sung in the pane ; the 
mouse 
Behind the mouldering wainscot 
shriek'd, 
Or from the crevice peer'd about. 
Old faces glimmer' d thro' the doors, 
Old footsteps trod the upper floors, 
Old voices called her from without. 
She only said, ' My life is dreary, 
He cometh not,' she said ; 70 
She said, ' I am aweary, aweary, 
I would that I were dead ! ' 

The sparrow's chirrup on the roof, 

The slow clock ticking, and the sound 
Which to the wooing wind aloof 

The poplar made, did all confound 

Her sense ; but most she loathed the 

hour 

When the thick-moted sunbeam lay 

Athwart the chambers, and the day 

Was sloping toward his western 

bower. 80 

Then said she, ' I am very dreary, 

He will not come/ she said; 
She wept, ' I am aweary, aweary, 
O God, that I were dead ! ' 



TO 



Clear-headed friend, whose joyful 
scorn, 
Edged with sharp laughter, cuts 
atwain 
The knots that tangle human 
creeds, 
The wounding cords that bind and 
strain 
The heart until it bleeds, 
Ray-fringed eyelids of the morn 

Roof not a glance so keen as thine ; 
If aught of prophecy be mine, 
Thou wilt not live in vain. 

11 
Low-cowering shall the Sophist sit ; 
Falsehood shall bare her plaited 

brow ; 
Fair-fronted Truth shall droop not 
now 
With shrilling shafts of subtle wit. 
Nor martyr-flames, nor trenchant 
swords 
Can do away that ancient lie ; 
A gentler death shall Falsehood die, 
Shot thro' and thro' with cunning 
words. 



Weak Truth a-leaning on her crutch, 

Wan, wasted Truth in her utmost 
need, 

Thy kingly intellect shall feed, 
Until she be an athlete bold, 
And weary with a finger's touch 

Those writhed limbs of lightning 
speed ; 
Like that strange angel which of old, 

Until the breaking of the light, 
Wrestled with wandering Israel, 

Fast Yabbok brook the livelong 
night, 
And heaven's mazed signs stood still 
In the dim tract of Penuel. 



MADELINE 



Thou art not steep'd in golden lan- 
guors, 
No tranced summer calm is thine, 
Ever varying Madeline. 



RECOLLECTIONS OF THE ARABIAN NIGHTS n 



Thro' light and shadow thou dost 

range, 
Sudden glances, sweet and strange, 
Delicious spites and darling angers, 
And airy forms of flitting change. 

ii 
Smiling, frowning, evermore, 
Thou art perfect in love-lore. 
Revealings deep and clear are thine 
Of wealthy smiles ; but who may know 
Whether smile or frown be fleeter ? 
Whether smile or frown be sweeter, 

Who may know ? 
Frowns perfect- sweet along the brow 
Light-glooming over eyes divine, 
Like little clouds sun-fringed, are 
thine, 
Ever varying Madeline. 
Thy smile and frown are not aloof 
From one another, 
Each to each is dearest brother ; 
Hues of the silken sheeny woof 
Momently shot into each other. 
All the mystery is thine ; 
Smiling, frowning, evermore, 
Thou art perfect in love-lore, 
Ever varying Madeline. 

in 

A subtle, sudden flame, 

By veering passion fann'd, 
About thee breaks and dances: 

When I would kiss thy hand, 
The flush of anger' d shame 

O'erflows thy calmer glances, 
And o'er black brows drops down 
A sudden-curved frown : 
But when I turn away, 
Thou, willing me to stay, 

Wooest not, nor vainly wranglest, 
But, looking fixedly the while, 

All my bounding heart entanglest 
In a golden-netted smile ; 
Then in madness and in bliss, 
If my lips should dare to kiss 
Thy taper fingers amorously, 
Again thou blushest angrily ; 
And o'er black brows drops down 
A sudden-curved frown. 

SONG — THE OWL 



When cats run home and light is come, 
And dew is cold upon the ground, 



And the far-off stream is dumb, 
And the whirring sail goes round, 
And the whirring sail goes round ; 
Alone and warming his five wits, 
The white owl in the belfry sits. 

ii 
When merry milkmaids click the latch, 
And rarely smells the new-mown 
hay, 
And the cock hath sung beneath the 
thatch 
Twice or thrice his roundelay, 
Twice or thrice his roundelay ; 
Alone and warming his ^ve wits, 
The white owl in the belfry sits. 

SECOND SONG 

TO THE SAME 
I 

Thy tuwhits are lull'd, I wot, 
Thy tuwhoos of yesternight, 
Which upon the dark afloat, 
So took echo with delight, 
So took echo with delight, 
That her voice, untuneful grown, 
Wears all day a fainter tone. 



I would mock thy chaunt anew ; 

But I cannot mimic it ; 
Not a whit of thy tuwhoo, 
Thee to woo to thy tuwhit, 
Thee to woo to thy tuwhit, 
With a lengthen'd loud halloo, 
Tuwhoo, tuwhit, tuwhit, tu- 
whoo-o-o ! 



RECOLLECTIONS OF THE 
ARABIAN NIGHTS 

When the breeze of a joyful dawn 

blew free 
In the silken sail of infancy, 
The tide of time flow'd back with me, 

The forward-flowing tide of time ; 
And many a sheeny summer-morn, 
Adown the Tigris I was borne, 
By Bagdat's shrines of fretted gold, 
High-walled gardens green and old ; 
True Mussulman was I and sworn, 

For it was in the golden prime w 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 



12 



JUVENILIA 



Anight my shallop, rustling thro' 
The low and bloomed foliage, drove 
The fragrant, glistening deeps, and 

clove 
The citron-shadows in the blue ; 
By garden porches on the brim, 
The costly doors flung open wide, 
Gold glittering thro' lamplight dim, 
And broider'd sofas on each side. 
In sooth it was a goodly time, 20 
For it was in the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

Often, where clear-stemm'd platans 

guard 
The outlet, did I turn away 
The boat-head down a broad canal 
From the main river sluiced, where all 
The sloping of the moonlit sward 
Was damask-work, and deep inlay 
Of braided blooms unmown, which 

crept 
Adown to where the water slept. 30 
A goodly place, a goodly time, 
For it was in the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

A motion from the river won 
Ridged the smooth level, bearing on 
My shallop thro' the star-strown calm, 
Until another night in night 
I enter'd, from the clearer light, 
Imbower'd vaults of pillar'd palm, 
Imprisoning sweets, which, as they 
clomb 40 

Heavenward, were stay'd beneath the 
dome 
Of hollow boughs. A goodly time, 
For it was in the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

Still onward ; and the clear canal 
Is rounded to as clear a lake. 
From the green rivage many a fall 
Of diamond rillets musical, 
Thro' little crystal arches low 49 

Down from the central fountain's flow 
Fallen silver-chiming, seemed to shake 
The sparkling flints beneath the prow. 
A goodly place, a goodly time, 
For it was in the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

Above thro' many a bowery turn 
A walk with vari-colored shells 
Wander'd engrain'd. On either side 



All round about the fragrant marge 
From fluted vase, and brazen urn 60 
In order, eastern flowers large, 
Some dropping low their crimson 

bells 
Half-closed, and others studded wide 
With disks and tiars, fed the time 
With odor in the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

Far off, and where the lemon grove 
In closest coverture upsprung, 
The living airs of middle night 
Died round the bulbul as he sung ; 70 
Not he, but something which pos- 

sess'd 

The darkness of the world, delight, 

Life, anguish, death, immortal love, 

Ceasing not, mingled, unrepress'd, 

Apart from place, withholding time, 

But flattering the golden prime 

Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

Black the garden-bowers and grots 
Slumber'd; the solemn palms were 

ranged 
Above, unwoo'd of summer wind ; 80 
A sudden splendor from behind 
Flush'd all the leaves with rich gold- 
green, 
And, flowing rapidly between 
Their interspaces, counterchanged 
The level lake with diamond-plots 
Of dark and bright. A lovely time, 
For it was in the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

Dark-blue the deep sphere overhead, 
Distinct with vivid stars inlaid, 90 
Grew darker from that under-flame ; 
So, leaping lightly from the boat, 
With silver anchor left afloat, 
In marvel whence that glory came 
Upon me, as in sleep I sank 
In cool soft turf upon the bank, 
Entranced with that place and time, 
So worthy of the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

Thence thro' the garden I was drawn — 
A realm of pleasance, many a 

mound, 101 

And many a shadow-chequer'd lawn 
Full of the city's stilly sound, 
And deep myrrh - thickets blowing 

round 



RECOLLECTIONS OF THE ARABIAN NIGHTS 13 




4 For it was in the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid ' 



The stately cedar, tamarisks, 
Thick rosaries of scented thorn, 
Tall orient shrubs, and obelisks 
Graven with emblems of the time, 
In honor of the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 1 

With dazed vision unawares 
From the long alley's latticed shade 
Emerged, I came upon the great 
Pavilion of the Caliphat. 
Right to the carven cedarn doors, 
Flung inward over spangled floors, 
Broad-based flights of marble stairs 
Ran up with golden balustrade, 
After the fashion of the time 
And humor of the golden prime 1 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 



The fourscore windows all alight 
As with the quintessence of flame, 
A million tapers flaring bright 
From twisted silvers look'd to shame 
The hollow- vaulted dark, and stream'd 
Upon the mooned domes aloof 
In inmost Bagdat, till there seem'd 
Hundreds of crescents on the roof 

Of night new-risen, that marvellous 
time 13c 

To celebrate the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

Then stole I up, and trancedly 
Gazed on the Persian girl alone, 
Serene with argent -lidded eyes 
Amorous, and Fashes like 1 to ray* 
Of darkness, and a brow oi' pearl 



14 



JUVENILIA 



Tressed with redolent ebony, 
In many a dark delicious curl, 
Flowing beneath her rose-hued zone ; 
The sweetest lady of the time, i 4 i 
Well worthy of the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

Six columns, three on either side, 
Pure silver, underpropt a rich 
Throne of the massive ore, from which 
Down - droop'd, in many a floating 

fold, 
Engarlanded and diaper'd 
With inwrought flowers, a cloth of 

gold. 
Thereon, his deep eye laughter- stirr'd 
With merriment of kingly pride, 151 
Sole star of all that place and time, 
I saw him — in his golden prime, 
The Good Harotjis Alraschid. 



ODE TO MEMORY 



ADDRESSED TO 



Thou who stealest fire, 
From the fountains of the past, 
To glorify the present, O, haste, 

Visit my low desire ! 
Strengthen me, enlighten me ! 
I faint in this obscurity, 
Thou dewy dawn of memory. 



Come not as thou earnest of late, 
Flinging the gloom of yesternight 
On the white day, but robed in sof ten'd 
light 10 

Of orient state. 
Whilome thou earnest with the morn- 
ing mist, 
Even as a maid, whose stately 
brow 
The dew-impearled winds of dawn 
have kiss'd, 
When she, as thou, 
Stays on her floating locks the lovely 

freight 
Of overflowing blooms, and earliest 

shoots 
Of orient green, giving safe pledge of 

fruits, 
Which in wintertide shall star 
The black earth with brilliance rare. 20 



Whilome thou earnest with the morning 
mist, 
And with the evening cloud, 
Showering thy gleaned wealth into 

my open breast ; 
Those peerless flowers which in the 
rudest wind 

Never grow sere, 
When rooted in the garden of the mind, 
Because they are the earliest of the 
year. 
Nor was the night thy shroud. 
In sweet dreams softer than unbroken 

rest 
Thou leddest by the hand thine infant 
Hope. 30 

The eddying of her garments caught 

from thee 
The light of thy great presence ; and 
the cope 
Of the half-attain' d futurity, 
Tho' deep not fathomless, 
Was cloven with the million stars 

which tremble 
O'er the deep mind of dauntless in- 
fancy. 
Small thought was there of life's dis- 
tress ; 
For sure she deem'd no mist of earth 

could dull 
Those spirit-thrilling eyes so keen and 

beautiful ; 
Sure she was nigher to heaven's 
spheres, 40 

Listening the lordly music flowing 
from 

The illimitable years. 
O, strengthen me, enlighten me ! 
I faint in this obscurity, 
Thou dewy dawn of memory. 

IV 

Come forth, I charge thee, arise, 
Thou of the many tongues, the myriad 

eyes ! 
Thou comest not with shows of flaunt- 
ing vines 
Unto mine inner eye, 
Divinest Memory ! 50 

Thou wert not nursed by the water- 
fall 
Which ever sounds and shines 
A pillar of white light upon the 
wall 
Of purple cliffs, aloof descried : 



ODE TO MEMORY 



IS 



Come from the woods that belt the 

gray hillside, 
The seven elms, the poplars four 
That stand beside my father's door, 
And chiefly from the brook that 

loves 



When the first matin-song hath wak- 

en'd loud 
Over the dark dewy earth forlorn, 
What time the amber morn 70 

Forth gushes from beneath a low-hung 

cloud. 




' To . . . dimple in the dark of rushy coves ' 



To purl o'er matted cress and ribbed 

sand, 59 

Or dimple in the dark of rushy coves, 

Drawing into his narrow earthen urn, 

In every elbow and turn, 
The filter'd tribute of the rough wood- 
land ; 
O, hither lead thy feet ! 
Pour round mine ears the livelong bleat 
Of the thick-fleeced sheep from wattled 
folds, 
Upon the ridged wolds, 



Large dowries doth the raptured eye 
To the young spirit present 
When first she is wed, 
» And like a bride of old 

In triumph led, 
With music and sweet showers 
Of festal flowers, 
Unto the dwelling she must sway. 
Well hast thou done, great artist Mem- 
ory, 



i6 



JUVENILIA 



In setting round thy first experi- 
ment 
With royal framework of wrought 
gold ; 

Needs must thou dearly love thy first 
essay, 

And foremost in thy various gallery 
Place it, where sweetest sunlight 

falls 
Upon the storied walls ; 
For the discovery 

And newness of thine art so pleased 
thee 

That all w T hich thou hast drawn of 
fairest 

Or boldest since but lightly weighs 90 

With thee unto the love thou bearest 

The first-born of thy genius. Artist- 
like, 

Ever retiring thou dost gaze 

On the prime labor of thine early 
days, 

No matter what the sketch might be : 

Whether the high field on the bush- 
less pike, 

Or even a sand-built ridge 

Of heaped hills that mound the sea, 

Overblown with murmurs harsh, 

Or even a lowly cottage whence we 
see 100 

Stretch'd wide and wild the waste 
enormous marsh, 

Where from the frequent bridge, 

Like emblems of infinity, 

The trenched waters run from sky to 
sky; 

Or a garden bower'd close 

With plaited alleys of the trailing rose, 

Long alleys falling down to twilight 
grots, 

Or opening upon level plots 

Of crowned lilies, standing near 

Purple-spiked lavender : 1 10 

Whither in after life retired 

From brawling storms, 

From weary wind, 

With youthful fancy re-inspired, 

We may hold converse with all forms 

Of the many-sided mind, 

And those whom passion hath not 
blinded, 

Sub tie-though ted, myriad-minded. 

My friend, with you to live alone 
Were how much better than to own 120 
A crown, a sceptre, and a throne ! 



O, strengthen me, enlighten me ! 
I faint in this obscurity, 
Thou dewy dawn of memory. 



SONG 



A spirit haunts the year's last hours 
Dwelling amid these yellowing bow- 
ers. 
To himself he talks ; 
For at eventide, listening earnestly, 
At his work you may hear him sob 
and sigh 
In the walks ; 
Earthward he boweth the heavy 
stalks 
Of the mouldering flowers. 

Heavily hangs the broad sunflower 
Over its grave i' the earth so 
chilly ; 
Heavily hangs the hollyhock, 
Heavily hangs the tiger-lily. 



The air is damp, and hush'd, and close, 
As a sick man's room when he taketh 
repose 
An hour before death ; 
My very heart faints and my whole 

soul grieves 
At the moist rich smell of the rotting 
leaves, 
And the breath 
Of the fading edges of box beneath, 
And the year's last rose. 

Heavily hangs the broad sunflower 
Over its grave i' the earth so 
chilly ; 
Heavily hangs the hollyhock, 
Heavily hangs the tiger-lily. 



A CHARACTER 

With a half -glance upon the sky 
At night he said, ' The wanderings 
Of this most intricate Universe 
Teach me the nothingness of things ; 
Yet could not all creation pierce 
Beyond the bottom of his eye. 

He spake of beauty ; that the dull 

Saw no divinity in grass, 

Life in dead stones, or spirit in air ; 



THE POET 



i7 



Then looking as 't were in a glass, 
He smooth'd his chin and sleek' d his 

hair, 
And said the earth was beautiful. 

He spake of virtue : not the gods 
More purely when they wish to charm 
Pallas and Juno sitting by ; 
And with a sweeping of the arm, 
And a lack-lustre dead-blue eye, 
Devolved his rounded periods. 

Most delicately hour by hour 
He canvass'd human mysteries, 
And trod on silk, as if the winds 
Blew his own praises in his eyes, 
And stood aloof from other minds 
In impotence of fancied power. 

With lips depress'd as he were meek, 
Himself unto himself he sold : 
Upon himself himself did feed ; 
Quiet, dispassionate, and cold, 
And other than his form of creed, 
With chisell'd features clear and sleek. 

THE POET 

The poet in a golden clime was born, 

With golden stars above ; 
Dower'd with the hate of hate, the 
scorn of scorn, 
The love of love. 

He saw thro' life and death, thro' good 
and ill, 
He saw thro' his own soul. 
The marvel of the everlasting will, 
An open scroll, 

Before him lay ; with echoing feet he 
threaded 
The secretest walks of fame : 
The viewless arrows of his thoughts 
were headed 

And wing'd with flame, 

Like Indian reeds blown from his sil- 
ver tongue, 
And of so fierce a flight, 
From Calpe unto Caucasus they sung, 
Filling with light 

And vagrant melodies the winds which 
bore 
Them earthward till they lit ; 



Then, like the arrow-seeds of the 
field flower, 

The fruitful wit 

Cleaving took root, and springing 
forth anew 
Where'er they fell, behold. 
Like to the mother plant in semblance ; 
grew 
A flower all gold, 

And bravely furnish' d all abroad to 
fling 
The winged shafts of truth. 
To throng with stately blooms the 
breathing spring 
Of Hope and Youth. 

So many minds did gird their orbs 
with beams, 
Tho' one did fling the fire ; 
Heaven flow'd upon the soul in many 
dreams 

Of high desire. 

Thus truth was multiplied on truth, 
the world 
Like one great garden show'd, 
And thro' the wreaths of floating dark 
upcurl'd, 
Rare sunrise flow'd. 

And Freedom rear'd in that august 
sunrise 
Her beautiful bold brow, 
When rites and forms before his burn- 
ing eyes 
Melted like snow. 

There was no blood upon her maiden 
robes 
Sunn'd by those orient skies ; 
But round about the circles of the 
globes 
Of her keen eyes 

And in her raiment's hem was traced 
in flame 
Wisdom, a name to shake 
All evil dreams of power— a sacred 
name. 

And when she spake. 

Her words did gather thunder as they 
ran. 
And as the lightning to the thunder 



i8 



JUVENILIA 



Which follows it, riving the spirit of 
man, 
Making earth wonder, 

So was their meaning to her words. 
No sword 
Of wrath her right arm whirl' d, 
But one poor poet's scroll, and with 
his word 

She shook the world. 



THE POET'S MIND 



Vex not thou the poet's mind 

With thy shallow wit ; 
Vex not thou the poet's mind, 

For thou canst not fathom it. 
Clear and bright it should be ever, 
Flowing like a crystal river, 
Bright as light, and clear as wind. 



Dark - brow'd sophist, come not 
anear ; 
All the place is holy ground ; 
Hollow smile and frozen sneer 
Come not here. 
Holy water will I pour 
Into every spicy flower 
Of the laurel-shrubs that hedge it 

around. 
The flowers would faint at your cruel 
cheer. 
In your eye there is death, 
There is frost in your breath 
Which would blight the plants. 
Where you stand you cannot hear 
From the groves within 
The wild-bird's din. 
In the heart of the garden the merry 

bird chants. 
It would fall to the ground if you came 
in. 
In the middle leaps a fountain 
Like sheet lightning, 
Ever brightening 
With a low melodious thunder ; 
All day and all night it is ever drawn 
From the brain of the purple moun- 
tain 
Which stands in the distance yonder. 
It springs on a level of bowery lawn, 
And the mountain draws it from hea- 
ven above, 



And it sings a song of undying love ; 
And yet, tho' its voice be so clear and 

full, 
You never would hear it, your ears are 

so dull ; 
So keep where you are ; you are foul 

with sin ; 
It would shrink to the earth if you 

came in. 

THE SEA-FAIRIES 

Slow sail'd the weary mariners and 
saw, 

Betwixt the green brink and the run- 
ning foam, 

Sweet faces, rounded arms, and bosoms 
prest 

To little harps of gold ; and while they 
mused, 

Whispering to each other half in fear, 

Shrill music reach'd them on the mid- 
dle sea. 

Whither away, whither away, whither 
away ? fly no more. 

Whither away from the high green 
field, and the happy blossoming 
shore ? 

Day and night to the billow the foun- 
tain calls ; 

Down shower the gambolling water- 
falls IO 

From wandering over the lea ; 

Out of the live-green heart of the dells 

They freshen the silvery - crimson 
shells, 

And thick with white bells the clover- 
hill swells 

High over the full-toned sea. 

O, hither, come hither and furl your 
sails, 

Come hither to me and to me ; 

Hither, come hither and frolic and 
play ; 

Here it is only the mew that wails ; 

We will sing to you all the day. 20 

Mariner, mariner, furl your sails, 

For here are the blissful downs and 
dales, 

And merrily, merrily carol the gales, 

And the spangle dances in bight and 
bay, 

And the rainbow forms and flies on 
the land 

Over the islands free ; 



THE DESERTED HOUSE 



*9 



And the rainbow lives in the curve of 

the sand ; 
Hither, come hither and see ; 
And the rainbow hangs on the poising 

wave, 
And sweet is the color of cove and 

cave, 30 

And sweet shall your welcome be. 
O, hither, come hither, and be our 

lords, 
For merry brides are we. 
We will kiss sweet kisses, and speak 

sweet words ; 
O, listen, listen, your eyes shall glisten 
With pleasure and love and jubilee. 
O, listen, listen, your eyes shall glisten 
When the sharp clear twang of the 

golden chords 
Runs up the ridged sea. 
Who can light on as happy a shore 40 
All the world o'er, all the world 

o'er? 
Whither away ? listen and stay ; mari- 
ner, mariner, fly no more. 



THE DESERTED HOUSE 



Life and Thought have gone away 

Side by side, 

Leaving door and windows wide ; 
Careless tenants they ! 



All within is dark as night : 
In the windows is no light ; 
And no murmur at the door, 
So frequent on its hinge before. 



Close the door, the shutters close, 
Or thro' the windows we shall 

see 
The nakedness and vacancy 

Of the dark deserted house. 



Come away ; no more of mirth 

Is here or merry-making sound. 




1 Life and Thought have gone away 
Side by side ' 



20 



JUVENILIA 



The house was builded of the earth, 
And shall fall again to ground. 



Come away ; for Life and Thought 

Here no longer dwell, 
But in a city glorious — 
A great and distant city — have bought 

A mansion incorruptible. 
Would they could have stayed with 



THE DYING SWAN 



The plain was grassy, wild and bare, 
Wide, wild, and open to the air, 
Which had built up everywhere 
An under-roof of doleful gray. 
With an inner voice the river ran, 
Adown it floated a dying swan, 

And loudly did lament. 
It was the middle of the day. 
Ever the weary wind went on, 9 

And took the reed-tops as it went. 

ii 
Some blue peaks in the distance rose, 
And white against the cold- white sky 
Shone out their crowning snows. 

One willow over the river wept, 
And shook the wave as the wind did 

sigh ; 
Above in the wind was the swallow, 
Chasing itself at its own wild will, 
And far thro' the marish green and 

still 
The tangled water-courses slept, 
Shot over with purple, and green, and 
yellow. 20 



The wild swan's death-hymn took the 

soul 
Of that waste place with joy 
Hidden in sorrow. At first to the ear 
The warble was low, and full and 

clear ; 
And floating about the under-sky, 
Prevailing in weakness, the coronach 

stole 
Sometimes afar, and sometimes anear ; 
But anon her awful jubilant voice, 
With a music strange and manifold, 
Flow'd forth on a carol free and bold ; 



As when a mighty people rejoice 31 

With shawms, and with cymbals, and 
harps of gold, 

And the tumult of their acclaim is 
roll'd 

Thro' the open gates of the city afar, 

To the shepherd who watcheth the 
evening star. 

And the creeping mosses and clamber- 
ing weeds, 

And the willow- branches hoar and 
dank, 

And the wavy swell of the soughing 
reeds, 

And the wave-worn horns of the echo- 
ing bank, 

And the silvery marish-flowers that 
throng 40 

The desolate creeks and pools among, 

Were flooded over with eddying song. 

A DIRGE 



Now is done thy long day's work ; 
Fold thy palms across thy breast, 
Fold thine arms, turn to thy rest. 

Let them rave. 
Shadows of the silver birk 
Sweep the green that folds thy grave. 

Let them rave. 

11 
Thee nor carketh care nor slander ; 
Nothing but the small cold worm 
Fretteth thine enshrouded form. 

Let them rave. 
Light and shadow ever wander 
O'er the green that folds thy grave. 

Let them rave. 



Thou wilt not turn upon thy bed ; 
Chaunteth not the brooding bee 
Sweeter tones than calumny? 

Let them rave. 
Thou wilt never raise thine head 
From the green that folds thy grave. 

Let them rave. 



Crocodiles wept tears for thee ; 
The woodbine and eglatere 
Drip sweeter dews than traitor's tear. 
Let them rave. 



THE BALLAD OF ORIANA 



21 



Rain makes music in the tree 
O'er the green that folds thy grave. 
Let them rave. 



Round thee blow, self-pleached deep, 
Bramble roses, faint and pale, 
And long purples of the dale. 

Let them rave. 
These in every shower creep 
Thro' the green that folds thy grave. 

Let them rave. 

VI 

The gold-eyed kingcups fine, 
The frail bluebell peereth over 
Rare broidery of the purple clover. 

Let them rave. 
Kings have no such couch as thine, 
As the green that folds thy grave. 

Let them rave. 



Wild words wander here and there ; 
God's great gift of speech abused 
Makes thy memory confused ; 

But let them rave. 
The balm-cricket carols clear 
In the green that folds thy grave. 

Let them rave. 



LOVE AND DEATH 

What time the mighty moon was 

gathering light 
Love paced the thymy plots of Para- 
dise, 
And all about him roll'd his lustrous 

eyes; 
When, turning round a cassia, full in 

view, 
Death, walking all alone beneath a 

yew, 
And talking to himself, first met his 

sight. 
' You must begone,' said Death, ' these 

walks are mine.' 
Love wept and spread his sheeny vans 

for flight ; 
Yet ere he parted said, ' This hour is 

thine ; 
Thou art the shadow of life, and as 

the tree 
Stands in the sun and shadows all 

beneath, 



So in the light of great eternity 
Life eminent creates the shade of death. 
The shadow passeth when the tree 

shall fall, 
But I shall reign for ever over all. ' 



THE BALLAD OF ORIANA 

My heart is wasted with my woe, 

Oriana. 
There is no rest for me below, 

Oriana. 
When the long dun wolds are ribb'd 

with snow, 
And loud the Norland whirlwinds 
blow, 

Oriana, 
Alone I wander to and fro, 

Oriana. 

Ere the light on dark was growing, 10 

Oriana, 
At midnight the cock was crowing, 

Oriana ; 
Winds were blowing, waters flowing, 
We heard the steeds to battle going, 

Oriana, 
Aloud the hollow bugle blowing, 

Oriana. 

In the yew-wood black as night, 

Oriana, 2 o 

Ere I rode into the fight, 

Oriana, 
While blissful tears blinded my sight 
By star-shine and by moonlight, 

Oriana, 
I to thee my troth did plight, 

Oriana. 

She stood upon the castle wall, 

Oriana ; 
She watch'd my crest among them all, 

Oriana ; 31 

She saw me fight, she heard me call, 
When forth there stept a foeman 
tall, 

Oriana, 
Atween me and the castle wall, 

Oriana. 

The bitter arrow went aside, 

Oriana ; 
The false, false arrow went aside, 

Oriana ; 40 



22 



JUVENILIA 




' I to thee my troth did plight, 
Oriana ' 



The danmed arrow glanced aside, 
And pierced thy heart, my love, my 
bride, 

Oriana ! 
Thy heart, my life, my love, my bride, 

Oriana ! 

O. narrow, narrow was the space, 

Oriana ! 
Loud, loud rung out the bugle's brays, 

Oriana. 
O, deathful stabs were dealt apace, 50 
The battle deepen'd in its place, 

Oriana ; 
But I was down upon my face, 

Oriana. 

They should have stabb'd me where I 
lay, 

Oriana ! 



How could I rise and come away, 

Oriana ? 
How could I look upon the day ? 
They should have stabb'd me where I 
lay, 60 

Oriana — 
They should have trod me into clay, 

Oriana. 

O breaking heart that will not break, 

Oriana ! 
O pale, pale face so sweet and meek, 

Oriana ! 
Thou smilest, but thou dost not speak, 
And then the tears run down my 
cheek, 

Oriana. 70 

What wantest thou ? whom dost thou 
seek, 

Oriana ? 



THE MERMAN 



23 



I cry aloud ; none hear my cries, 


Sitting alone, 


Oriana. 


Singing alone 


Thou comest atween me and the 


Under the sea, 


skies, 


With a crown of gold, 


Oriana. 


On a throne ? 


I feel the tears of blood arise 




Up from my heart unto my eyes, 


11 


Oriana. 


I would be a merman bold, 


Within thy heart my arrow lies, 80 


I would sit and sing the whole of the 


Oriana. 


day; 




I would fill the sea-halls with a voice 


cursed hand ! cursed blow 


of power ; 


Oriana ! 


But at night I would roam abroad 


happy thou that liest low, 


and play 


Oriana ! 


With the mermaids in and out of the 


All night the silence seems to flow 


rocks, 


Beside me in my utter woe, 


Dressing their hair with the white 


Oriana. 


sea-flower ; 


A weary, weary way I go, 


And holding them back by their flow- 


Oriana ! 90 


ing locks 




I would kiss them often under the sea, 


When Norland winds pipe down the 


And kiss them again till they kiss'd me 


sea, 


Laughingly, laughingly; 


Oriana, 


And then we would wander away, 


I walk, I dare not think of thee, 


away, 


Oriana. 


To the pale-green sea-groves straight 


Thou liest beneath the greenwood tree, 


and high, 


I dare not die and come to thee, 


Chasing each other merrily. 


Oriana. 




I hear the roaring of the sea, 


in 


Oriana. 


There would be neither moon nor star ; 




But the wave would make music 


CIRCUMSTANCE 


above us afar — 




Low thunder and light in the magic 


Two children in two neighbor villages 


night — 


Playing mad pranks along the heathy 


Neither moon nor star. 


leas; 


We would call aloud in the dreamy 


Two strangers meeting at a festival ; 


dells, 


Two lovers whispering by an orchard 


Call to each other and whoop and cry 


wall ; 


All night, merrily, merrily. 


Two lives bound fast in one with 


They would pelt me with starry span- 


golden ease ; 


gles and shells, 


Two graves grass-green beside a gray 


Laughing and clapping their hands 


church- tower, 


between, 


Wash'd with still rains and daisy-blos- 


All night, merrily, merrily, 


somed ; 


But I would throw to them back in 


Two children in one hamlet born and 


mine 


bred : 


Turkis and agate and almondine ; 


So runs the round of life from hour 


Then leaping out upon them unseen 


to hour. 


I would kiss them often under the sea. 




And kiss them again till they kiss'd me 


THE MERMAN 


Laughingly, laughingly. 




0, what a happy life 1 were mine 


1 


Under the hollow-hung ocean green ! 


Who would be 


Soft are the moss-beds under the sea ; 


A merman bold, 


We would live merrily, merrily. 



24 



JUVENILIA 



THE MERMAID 



Who would be 
A mermaid fair, 
Singing alone, 
Combing her hair 
Under the sea, 
In a golden curl 
With a comb of pearl, 
On a throne ? 



I would be a mermaid fair ; 
I would sing to myself the whole of 

the day ; 
With a comb of pearl I would comb 

my hair ; 
And still as I comb'd I would sing and 

say, 
' Who is it loves me ? who loves not 

me?' 
I would comb my hair till my ringlets 
would fall 
Low adown, low adown, 
From under my starry sea-bud crown 

Low adown and around, 
And I should look like a fountain of 
gold 

Springing alone 
With a shrill inner sound, 

Over the throne 
In the midst of the hall ; 
Till that great sea-snake under the sea 
From his coiled sleeps in the central 

deeps 
Would slowly trail himself sevenfold 
Round the hall where I sate, and look 

in at the gate 
With his large calm eyes for the love 

of me. 
And all the mermen under the sea 
Would feel their immortality 
Die in their hearts for the love of me. 



But at night I would wander away, 
away, 
I would fling on each side my low- 
flowing locks, 

And lightly vault from the throne and 
play 
With the mermen in and out of the 
rocks ; 

We would run to and fro, and hide 
and seek, 



On the broad seawolds in the crim- 
son shells, 
Whose silvery spikes are nighest the 

sea. 
But if any came near I would call, 

and*shriek, 
And adown the steep like a wave I 

would leap 
From the diamond-ledges that jut 

from the dells ; 
For I would not be kiss'd by all who 

would list 
Of the bold merry mermen under the 

sea. 
They would sue me, and woo me, and 

flatter me, 
In the purple twilights under the sea ; 
But the king of them all would carry 

me, 
Woo me, and win me, and marry 

me, 
In the branching jaspers under the 

sea. 
Then all the dry pied things that be 
In the hueless mosses under the sea 
Would curl round my silver feet si- 
lently, 
All looking up for the love of me. 
And if I should carol aloud, from 

aloft 
All things that are forked, and horned, 

and soft 
Would lean out from the hollow sphere 

of the sea, 
All looking down for the love of me. 

ADELINE 



Mystery of mysteries, 

Faintly smiling Adeline, 
Scarce of earth nor all divine, 

Nor unhappy, nor at rest. 

But beyond expression fair 
With thy floating flaxen hair ; 

Thy rose-lips and full blue eyes 

Take the heart from out my breast. 
Wherefore those dim looks of thine, 
Shadowy, dreaming Adeline ? 



Whence that aery bloom of thine, 
Like a lily which the sun 

Looks thro' in his sad decline, 
And a rose-bush leans upon, 






ADELINE 



2 5 



Thou that faintly smilest still, 

As a Naiad in a well, 

Looking at the set of day, 
Or a phantom two hours old 

Of a maiden past away, 
Ere the placid lips be cold ? 
Wherefore those faint smiles 
thine, 

Spiritual Adeline ? 



of 



What hope or fear or joy is thine ? 
Who talketh with thee, Adeline ? 
For sure thou art not all alone. 
Do beating hearts of salient 
springs 
Keep measure with thine own ? 
Hast thou heard the butterflies 
What they say betwixt their 

wings ? 
Or in stillest evenings 
With what voice the violet woos 
To his heart the silver dews ? 
Or when little airs arise, 



How the merry bluebell rings 
To the mosses underneath ? 
Hast thou look'd upon the breath 
Of the lilies at sunrise ? 
Wherefore that faint smile of thine, 
Shadowy, dreaming Adeline ? 

IV 

Some honey-converse feeds thy mind, 
Some spirit of a crimson rose 
In love with thee forgets to close 
His curtains, wasting odorous sighs 
All night long on darkness blind. 
What aileth thee ? whom waitest thou 
With thy soften'd, shadow' d brow, 
And those dew-lit eyes of thine, 
Thou faint smiler, Adeline ? 



Lovest thou the doleful wind 

When thou gazest at the skies ? 

Doth the low-tongued Orient 

Wander from the side of the morn, 
Dripping with Sabsean spice 




' The low-tongued Orient ' 



26 



JUVENILIA 



On thy pillow, lowly bent 

With melodious airs lovelorn, 
Breathing Light against thy face. 
While his locks a-drooping twined 
Round thy neck in subtle ring- 
Make a carcanet of rays, 

And ye talk together still, 
In the language wherewith Spring 

Letters cowslips on the hill ? 
Hence that look and smile of thine, 
Spiritual Adeline. 



MARGARET 



O sweet pale Margaret, 
O rare pale Margaret, 
What lit your eyes with tearful power, 
Like moonlight on a falling shower ? 
Who lent you, love, your mortal dower 
Of pensive thought and aspect 

pale, 
Your melancholy sweet and frail 
As perfume of the cuckoo flower ? 
From the westward- winding flood, 
From the evening-lighted wood, 

From all things outward you have 
won 
A tearful grace, as tho' you stood 
Between the rainbow and the 
sun. 
The very smile before you speak, 
That dimples your transparent cheek, 
Encircles all the heart, and feedeth 
The senses with a still delight 
Of dainty sorrow without sound, 
Like the tender amber round 
Which the moon about her spread- 
eth, 
Moving thro' a fleecy night. 



You love, remaining peacefully, 

To hear the murmur of the strife, 
But enter not the toil of life. 
Your spirit is the calmed sea, 

Laid by the tumult of the fight. 
You are the evening star, alway 

Remaining betwixt dark and 
bright ; 
Lull'd echoes of laborious day 

Come to you, gleams of mellow 

light 
Float by you on the verge of 
night. 



ROSALIND 



My Rosalind, my Rosalind, 

My frolic falcon, with bright eyes, 



What can it matter, Margaret, 

What songs below the waning 
stars 
The lion-heart, Plantagenet, 

Sang, looking thro' his prison 
bars? 
Exquisite Margaret, who can tell 
The last wild thought of Chatelet, 
Just ere the falling axe did part 
The burning brain from the true 
heart, 
Even in her sight he loved so well ? 

IV 

A fairy shield your Genius made 

And gave you on your natal day. 
Your sorrow, only sorrow's shade, 

Keeps real sorrow far away. 
You move not in such solitudes, 

You are not less divine, 
But more human in your moods, 

Than your twin-sister, Adeline. 
Your hair is darker, and your eyes 

Touch' d with a somewhat darker 
hue, 

And less aerially blue, 

But ever trembling thro' the dew 
Of dainty-woeful sympathies. 



O sweet pale Margaret, 
O rare pale Margaret, 
Come down, come down, and hear me 

speak. 
Tie up the ringlets on your cheek. 

The sun is just about to set, 
The arching limes are tall and shady, 
And faint, rainy lights are seen, 
Moving in the leavy beech. 
Rise from the feast of sorrow, lady, 
Where all day long you sit be- 
tween 
Joy and woe, and whisper each. 
Or only look across the lawn, 

Look out below your bower-eaves, 
Look down, and let your blue eyes 
dawn 
Upon me thro' the jasmine-leaves. 



ELEANORE 



27 



Whose free delight, from any height 

of rapid flight, 
Stoops at all game that wing the skies, 
My Rosalind, my Rosalind, 
My bright- eyed, wild-eyed falcon, 

whither, 
Careless both of wind and weather, 
Whither fly ye, what game spy ye, 
Up or down the streaming wind ? 

11 
The quick lark's closest - car oil' d 

strains, 
The shadow rushing up the sea, 
The lightning flash atween the rains, 
The sunlight driving down the lea, 
The leaping stream, the very wind, 
That will not stay, upon his way, 
To stoop the cowslip to the plains, 
Is not so clear and bold and free 
As you, my falcon Rosalind. 
You care not for another's pains, 
Because you are the soul of joy, 
Bright metal all without alloy. 
Life shoots and glances thro' your 

veins, 
And flashes off a thousand ways, 
Thro' lips and eyes in subtle rays. 
Your hawk-eyes are keen and bright, 
Keen with triumph, watching still 
To pierce me thro' with pointed light ; 
But oftentimes they flash and glitter 
Like sunshine on a dancing rill, 
And your words are seeming-bitter, 
Sharp and few, but seeming -bitter 
From excess of swift delight. 



Come down, come home, my Rosalind, 
My gay young hawk, my Rosalind. 
Too long you keep the upper skies ; 
Too long you roam and wheel at 

will; 
But we must hood your random eyes, 
That care not whom they kill, 
And your cheek, whose brilliant hue 
Is so sparkling-fresh to view, 
Some red heath-flower in the dew, 
Touch'd with sunrise. We must bind 
And keep you fast, my Rosalind, 
Fast, fast, my wild-eyed Rosalind, 
And clip your wings, and make you 

love. 
When we have lured you from above, 
And that delight of frolic flight, by 

day or night, 



From North to South, 
We '11 bind you fast in silken cords 
And kiss away the bitter words 
From off your rosy mouth. 



ELEANORE 



Thy dark eyes open'd not, 
Nor first reveal'd themselves to Eng- 
lish air, 
For there is nothing here 
Which, from the outward to the in- 
ward brought, 
Moulded thy baby thought. 
Far off from human neighborhood 
Thou wert born, on a summer 
morn, 
A mile beneath the cedar-wood. 
Thy bounteous forehead was not f ann'd 
With breezes from our oaken 
glades, 10 

But thou wert nursed in some delicious 
land 
Of lavish lights, and floating 
shades ; 
And flattering thy childish thought 
The oriental fairy brought, 

At the moment of thy birth, 
From old well-heads of haunted rills, 
And the hearts of purple hills, 
And shadow'd coves on a sunny shore. 
The choicest wealth of all the 
earth, 
Jewel or shell, or starry ore, 20 

To deck thy cradle, Eleanore. 



Or the yellow-banded bees, 
Thro' half- open lattices 
Coming in the scented breeze, 
Fed thee, a child, lying alone, 

With whitest honey in fairy gar- 
dens cull'd — 
A glorious child, dreaming alone, 
In silk-soft folds, upon yielding down. 
With the hum of swarming bees 

Into dreamful slumber lull'd. 3° 

in 
Who may minister to thee? 
Summer herself should minister 
To thee, with fruitage golden-rinded 
On golden salvers, or it may be, 
Youngest Autumn, in a bower 



28 



JUVENILIA 



Grape-thicken'd from the light, and 

blinded 
With many a deep-hued bell -like 

flower 
Of fragrant trailers, when the air 
Sleepeth over all the heaven, 
And the crag that fronts the even, 40 

All along the shadowing shore, 
Crimsons over an inland mere. 
Eleanore ! 



How may full- sail' d verse express, 

How may measured words adore 
The full-flowing harmony 
Of thy swan-like stateliness, 

Eleanore ? 
The luxuriant symmetry 
Of thy floating gracefulness, 50 

Eleanore? 
Every turn and glance of thine, 
Every lineament divine, 
Eleanore, 
And the steady sunset glow 
That stays upon thee ? For in thee 
Is nothing sudden, nothing single ; 
Like two streams of incense free 
From one censer in one shrine, 
Thought and motion mingle, 60 

Mingle ever. Motions flow 
To one another, even as tho' 
They were modulated so 
To an unheard melody, 
Which lives about thee, and a sweep 

Of richest pauses, evermore 
Drawn from each other mellow-deep ; 
Who may express thee, Eleanore? 



I stand before thee, Eleanore ; 

I see thy beauty gradually unfold, 
Daily and hourly, more and more. 71 
I muse, as in a trance, the while 

Slowly, as from a cloud of gold. 
Comes out thy deep ambrosial smile. 
I muse, as in a trance, whene'er 

The languors of thy love-deep eyes 
Float on to me. I would I were 

So tranced, so rapt in ecstasies, 
To stand apart, and to adore, 
Gazing on thee for evermore, 80 

Serene, imperial Eleanore ! 



Sometimes, with most intensity 
Gazing, I seem to see 



Thought folded over thought, smiling 

asleep, 
Slowly awaken'd, grow so full and 

deep 
In thy large eyes that, overpowerd 

quite, 
I cannot veil or droop my sight, 
But am as nothing in its light. 
As tho' a star, in inmost heaven set. 
Even while we gaze on it, 90 

Should slowly round his orb, and 

slowly grow 
To a full face, there like a sun remain 
Fix'd — then as slowly fade again, 
And draw itself to what it was 
before ; 
So full, so deep, so slow, 
Thought seems to come and go 

In thy large eyes, imperial Elea- 
nore. 



As thunder- clouds that, hung on high, 
Roof'd the world with doubt and fear, 
Floating thro' an evening atmosphere, 
Grow golden all about the sky ; 101 
In thee all passion becomes passionless, 
Touch'd by thy spirit's mellowness, 
Losing his fire and active might 

In a silent meditation, 
Falling into a still delight, 

And luxury of contemplation. 
As waves that up a quiet cove 
Rolling slide, and lying still 
Shadow forth the banks at will, no 
Or sometimes they swell and move, 
Pressing up against the land 
With motions of the outer sea ; 
And the self-same influence 
Controlleth all the soul and sense 

Of Passion gazing upon thee. 
His bow-string slacken'd, languid 
Love, 
Leaning his cheek upon his hand, 
Droops both his wings, regarding 
thee, 
And so would languish evermore, 120 
Serene, imperial Eleanore. 



But when I see thee roam, with tresses 

unconfined, 
While the amorous odorous wind 
Breathes low between the sunset and 

the moon ; 
Or, in a shadowy saloon, 



EARLY SONNETS 



29 



On silken cushions half reclined ; 

I watch thy grace, and in its 
place 
My heart a charmed slumber keeps, 

While I muse upon thy face ; 
And a languid fire creeps 130 

Thro' my veins to all my frame, 
Dissolvingly and slowly. Soon 

From thy rose-red lips my name 
Floweth ; and then, as in a swoon, 
With dinning sound my ears are rife, 
My tremulous tongue faltereth, 
I lose my color, I lose my breath, 
I drink the cup of a costly death, 
Brimm'd with delirious draughts of 
warmest life. 
I die with my delight before 140 
I hear what I would hear from 

thee; 
Yet tell my name again to me, 
I would be dying evermore, 
So dying ever, Eleanore. 



KATE 

I know her by her angry air, 
Her bright black eyes, her bright 
black hair, 

Her rapid laughters wild and shrill, 
As laughters of the woodpecker 

From the bosom of a hill. 

'Tis Kate — she sayeth wha.t she 
will; 
For Kate hath an unbridled tongue, 

Clear as the twanging of a harp. 

Her heart is like a throbbing star. 
Kate hath a spirit ever strung 

Like a new bow, and bright and 
sharp 

As edges of the scimitar. 
Whence shall she take a fitting mate ? 

For Kate no common love will feel ; 
My woman-soldier, gallant Kate, 

As pure and true as blades of steel. 

Kate saith ' the world is void of might.' 
Kate saith 'the men are gilded flies.' 

Kate snaps her fingers at my vows ; 
Kate will not hear of lovers' sighs. 
I would I were an armed knight, 
Far-famed for well- won enterprise, 

And wearing on my swarthy brows 
The garland of new - wreathed em- 
prise ; 

For in a moment I would pierce 



The blackest files of clanging fight, 
And strongly strike to left and right, 
In dreaming of my lady's eyes. 
O, Kate loves well the bold and 
fierce ; 
But none are bold enough for Kate, 
She cannot find a fitting mate. 



4 MY LIFE IS FULL OF WEARY 
DAYS' 

My life is full of weary days, 
But good things have not kept aloof, 

Nor wander' d into other ways ; 
I have not lack'd thy mild reproof, 

Nor golden largess of thy praise. 

And now shake hands across the brink 
Of that deep grave to which I go, 

Shake hands once more ; I cannot sink 
So far — far down, but I shall know 
Thy voice, and answer from below. 

When in the darkness over me 
The four-handed mole shall scrape, 

Plant thou no dusky cypress-tree, 
Nor wreathe thy cap with doleful 

crape, 
But pledge me in the flowing grape. 

And when the sappy field and wood 
Grow green beneath the showery 
gray, 
And rugged barks begin to bud, 
And thro' damp holts new-flush'd 

with may, 
Ring sudden scritches of the jay, 

Then let wise Nature work her will, 
And on my clay her darnel grow ; 

Come only, when the days are still. 
And at my headstone whisper low, 
And tell me if the woodbines blow. 

EARLY SONNETS' 



TO 

As when with downcast eyes we muse 

and brood, 
And ebb into a former life, or seem 
To lapse far back in some confused 

dream 
To states of mystical similitude. 



3° 



JUVENILIA 



If one but speaks or hems or stirs his 

chair, 
Ever the wonder waxeth more and 

more, 
So that we say, 'All this hath been 

before, 
All this hath been, I know not when 

or where ; ' 
So, friend, when first I look'd upon 

your face, 
Our thought gave answer each to 

each, so true — 
Opposed mirrors each reflecting each — 
That, tho' I knew not in what time or 

place, 
Methought that I had often met with 

you, 
And either lived in either' s heart and 

speech. 



to J. M. K. 

My hope and heart is with thee — thou 

wilt be 
~A latter Luther, and a soldier-priest 
To scare church - harpies from the 

master's feast ; 
Our dusted velvets have much need 

of thee : 
Thou art no Sabbath-drawler of old 

saws, 
Distill' d from some worm-canker' d 

homily ; 
But spurr'd at heart with fieriest energy 
To embattail and to wall about thy 

cause 
With iron-worded proof, hating to 

hark 
The humming of the drowsy pulpit- 
drone 
Half God's good Sabbath, while the 

worn-out clerk 
Brow-beats his desk below. Thou 

from a throne 
Mounted in heaven wilt shoot into the 

dark 
Arrows of lightnings. I will stand 

and mark. 



XXX 

Mine be the strength of spirit, full 

and free, 
Like some broad river rushing down 

alone, 



With the selfsame impulse wherewith 

he was thrown 
From his loud fount upon the echoing 

lea ; — 
Which with increasing might doth 

forward flee 
By town, and tower, and hill, and 

cape, and isle, 
And in the middle of the green salt sea 
Keeps his blue waters fresh for many 

a mile. 
Mine be the power which ever to its 

sway 
Will win the wise at once, and by 

degrees 
May into uncongenial spirits flow ; 
Even as the warm gulf-stream of 

Florida 
Floats far away into the Northern seas 
The lavish growths of southern Mex- 
ico. 



ALEXANDER 

Warrior of God, whose strong right 
arm debased 

The throne of Persia, when her Satrap 
bled 

At Issus by the Syrian gates, or fled 

Beyond the Memmian naphtha-pits, 
disgraced 

For ever — thee (thy pathway sand- 
erased) 

Gliding with equal crowns two ser- 
pents led 

Joyful to that palm-planted fountain- 
fed 

Ammonian Oasis in the waste. 

There in a silent shade of laurel brown 

Apart the Chamian Oracle divine 

Shelter' d his unapproached mysteries: 

High things were spoken there, un- 
handed down ; 

Only they saw thee from the secret 
shrine 

Returning with hot cheek and kindled 
eyes. 



BUONAPARTE 

He thought to quell the stubborn 

hearts of oak, 
Madman ! — to chain with chains, and 

bind with bands 



EARLY SONNETS 



3* 



That island queen who sways the 

floods and lands 
From Ind to Ind, but in fair daylight 

woke, 
When from her wooden walls, — lit by 

sure hands, — 
With thunders, and with lightnings, 

and with smoke, — 
Peal after peal, the British battle 

broke, 
Lulling the brine against the Coptic 

sands. 
We taught him lowlier moods, when 

Elsinore 
Heard the war moan along the distant 

sea, 
Rocking with shatter'd spars, with 

sudden fires 
Flamed over ; at Trafalgar yet once 

more 
We taught him; late he learned hu- 
mility 
Perforce, like those whom Gideon 

school' d with briers. 

VI 
POLAND 

How long, O God, shall men be ridden 

down, 
And trampled under by the last and 

Of men ? The heart of Poland hath 
not ceased 

To quiver, tho' her sacred blood doth 
drown 

The fields, and out of every smoulder- 
ing town 

Cries to Thee, lest brute Power be in- 
creased, 

Till that o'er grown Barbarian in the 
East 

Transgress his ample bound to some 
new crown, — 

Cries to Thee, ' Lord, how long shall 
these things be ? 

How long this icy-hearted Musco- 
vite 

Oppress the region?' Us, O Just and 
Good, 

Forgive, who smiled when she was 
torn in three ; 

Us, who stand now, when we should 
aid the right — 

A matter to be wept with tears of 
blood ! 



Caress' d or chidden by the slender 

hand, 
And singing airy trifles this or that, 
Light Hope at Beauty's call would 

perch and stand, 
And run thro' every change of sharp 

and flat ; 
And Fancy came and at her pillow sat, 
When Sleep had bound her in his 

rosy band, 
And chased away the still-recurring 

gnat, 
And woke her with a lay from fairy 

land. 
But now they live with Beauty less 

and less, 
For Hope is other Hope and wanders 

far, 
Nor cares to lisp in love's delicious 

creeds ; 
And Fancy watches in the wilderness, 
Poor Fancy sadder than a single star, 
That sets at twilight in a land of reeds. 

VIII 

The form, the form alone is eloquent ! 

A nobler yearning never broke her rest 

Than but to dance and sing, be gaily 
drest, 

And win all eyes with all accomplish- 
ment ; 

Yet in the whirling dances as we went, 

My fancy made me for a moment blest 

To find my heart so near the beaute- 
ous breast 

That once had power to rob it of con- 
tent. 

A moment came the tenderness of 
tears, 

The phantom of a wish that once could 
move, 

A ghost of passion that no smiles re- 
store — 

For ah ! the slight coquette, she can- 
not love, 

And if you kiss'd her feet a thousand 
years, 

She still would take the praise, and 
care no more. 



Wan Sculptor, weepest thou to take 

the cast 
Of those dead lineaments that near 

thee lie ? 



32 



JUVENILIA 



O, sorrowest thou, pale Painter, for 

the past, 
In painting some dead friend from 

memory ? 
Weep on ; beyond his object Love can 

last. 
His object lives ; more cause to weep 

have I : 
My tears, no tears of love, are flowing 

fast, 
No tears of love, but tears that Love 

can die. 
I pledge her not in any cheerful cup, 
Nor care to sit beside her where she 

sits — 
Ah ! pity — hint it not in human tones, 
But breathe it into earth and close it 

up 
With secret death for ever, in the 

pits 
Which some green Christmas crams 

with weary bones. 



If I were loved, as I desire to be, 
What is there in the great sphere of 

the earth, 
And range of evil between death and 

birth, 
That I should fear, — if I were loved 

by thee ? 
All the inner, all the outer world of 

pain 
Clear Love would pierce and cleave, 

if thou wert mine, 
As I have heard that, somewhere in 

the main, 
Fresh- water springs come up through 

bitter brine. 
'Twere joy, not fear, claspt hand-in- 
hand with thee, 



To wait for death — mute — careless 

of all ills, 
Apart upon a mountain, tho' the 

surge 
Of some new deluge from a thousand 

hills 
Flung leagues of roaring foam into 

the gorge 
Below us, as far on as eye could see. 

XI 
THE BRIDESMAID 

bridesmaid, ere the happy knot 

was tied, 
Thine eyes so wept that they could 

hardly see ; 
Thy sister smiled and said, ' No tears 

for me ! 
A happy bridesmaid makes a happy 

bride.' 
And then, the couple standing side by 

side, 
Love lighted down between them full 

of glee, 
And over his left shoulder laugh' d at 

thee, 
1 happy bridesmaid, make a happy 

bride. ' 
And all at once a pleasant truth I 

learn' d, 
For while the tender service made 

thee weep, 

1 loved thee for the tear thou couldst 

not hide, 
And pre st thy hand, and knew the 

press return'd, 
And thought, ' My life is sick of single 

sleep : 
O happy bridesmaid, make a happy 

bride ! ' 




' u The curse is come upon me," cried 
The Lady of Shalott ; 



THE LADY OF SHALOTT 



AND OTHER POEMS 



THE LADY OF SHALOTT 

PATtT I 

Ox either side the river lie 
Long fields of barley and of rye, 
That clothe the wold and meet the 

sky; 
And thro' the field the road runs by 

To many-tower' d Camelot ; 
And up and down the people go, 
Gazing where the lilies blow 
Round an island there below. 

The island of Shalott. 



Willows whiten, aspens quiver, 10 

Little breezes dusk and shiver 
Thro' the wave that runs for ever 
By the island in the river 

Flowing down to Camelot. 
Four gray walls, and four gray towers. 
Overlook a space of flowers. 
And the silent isle imbowers 

The Lady of Shalott, 

By the margin, willow-veil'd. 

Slide the heavy barges trail'd 20 

By slow horses; and unhail'd 



34 THE LADY OF SHALOTT AND OTHER POEMS 



The shallop flitteth silken-sail'd 

Skimming down to Camelot : 

But who hath seen her wave her hand? 

Or at the casement seen her stand? 

Or is she known in all the land, 
The Lady of Shalott? 

Only reapers, reaping early 
In among the bearded barley, 
Hear a song that echoes cheerly 30 
From the river winding clearly, 

Down to tower'd Camelot ; 
And by the moon the reaper weary, 
Piling sheaves in uplands airy, 
Listening, whispers "T is the fairy 

Lady of Shalott.' 

PART 11 
There she weaves by night and day 
A magic web with colors gay. 
She has heard a whisper say, 
A curse is on her if she stay 40 

To look down to Camelot. 
She knows not what the curse may be, 
And so she weaveth steadily, 
And little other care hath she, - 

The Lady of Shalott. 

f ,And moving thro' a mirror clear 
That hangs before her all the year, 
Shadows of the world appear. 
There she sees the highway near 

Winding down to Camelot ; 50 
There the river eddy whirls, 
And there the surly village-churls, 
And the red cloaks of market girls, 
Pass onward from Shalott. 

Sometimes a troop of damsels glad, 
An abbot on an ambling pad, 
Sometimes a curly shepherd-lad, 
Or long-hair' d page in crimson clad, 

Goes by to tower'd Camelot ; 
And sometimes thro' the mirror blue 60 
The knights come riding two and 

two: 
She hath no loyal knight and true, 

The Lady of Shalott. 

But in her web she still delights 
To weave the mirror's magic sights, 
For often thro' the silent nights 
A funeral, with plumes and lights 

And music, went to Camelot ; 
Or when the moon was overhead, 
Came two young lovers lately wed : 70 



' I am half sick of shadows,' said 
The Lady of Shalott. 

PART III 

A bow-shot from her bower-eaves, 
He rode between the barley-sheaves, 
The sun came dazzling thro' the leaves, 
And flamed upon the brazen greaves 

Of bold Sir Lancelot. 
A red-cross knight for ever kneel'd 
To a lady in his shield, 
That sparkled on the yellow field, 80 

Beside remote Shalott. 

The gemmy bridle glitter'd free. 
Like to some branch of stars we see 
Hung in the golden Galaxy. 
The bridle bells rang merrily 

As he rode down to Camelot ; 
And from his blazond baldric slung 
A mighty silver bugle hung, 
And as he rode his armor rung, 

Beside remote Shalott. 90 

All in the blue unclouded weather 
Thick- Jewell' d shone the saddle- 
leather, 
The helmet and the helmet-feather 
Burn'd like one burning flame together; 

As he rode down to Camelot ; 
As often thro' the purple night, 
Below the starry clusters bright, 
Some bearded meteor, trailing light, 

Moves over still Shalott. 

His broad clear brow in sunlight 

glow'd ; 100 

On burnish'd hooves his war-horse 

trode ; 
From underneath his helmet flow'd 
His coal-black curls as on he rode, 

As he rode down to Camelot. 
From the bank and from the river 
He flash'd into the crystal mirror, 
' Tirra lirra,' by the river 

Sang Sir Lancelot. 

1 ^ She left the web, she left the loom, 109 
She made three paces thro' the room, 
She saw the water-lily bloom, 
She saw the helmet and the plume, 

She look'd down to Camelot. 
Out flew the web and floated wide ; 
The mirror crack'd from side to side ; 
1 The curse is come upon me,' cried 

The Lady of Shalott. 



MARIANA IN THE SOUTH 



35 



PART IV 

In the stormy east-wind straining, 
The pale yellow woods were waning, 
The broad stream in his banks com- 
plaining, 1 20 
Heavily the low sky raining 

Over tower'd Camelot ; 
Down she came and found a boat 
Beneath a willow left afloat, 
And round about the prow she wrote 

The Lady of Shalott. 

And down the river's dim expanse 
Like some bold seer in a trance, 
Seeing all his own mischance — 
With a glassy countenance 130 

Did she look to Camelot. 
And at the closing of the day 
She loosed the chain, and down she 

lay; 
The broad stream bore her far away, 

The Lady of Shalott. 

Lying, robed in snowy white 
That loosely flew to left and right — 
The leaves upon her falling light — 
Thro' the noises of the night 

She floated down to Camelot ; 
And as the boat-head wound along 141 
The willowy hills and fields among, 
They heard her singing her last song, 

The Lady of Shalott. 

Heard a carol, mournful, holy, 
Chanted loudly, chanted lowly, 
Till her blood was frozen slowly, 
And her eyes were darken'd wholly, 

Turn'd to tower'd Camelot. 
For ere she reach'd upon the tide 150 
The first house by the water-side, 
Singing in her song she died, 

The Lady of Shalott. 

Under tower and balcony, 

By garden- wall and gallery, 

A gleaming shape she floated by, 

Dead-pale between the houses high, 

Silent into Camelot. 
Out upon the wharfs they came, 
Knight and burgher, lord and dame, 
And round the prow they read her 
name, 161 

The Lady of Shalott. 

Who is this? and what is here? 
And in the lighted palace near 



Died the sound of royal cheer ; 

And they cross'd themselves for fear, 

All the knights at Camelot: 
But Lancelot mused a little space ; 
He said, ' She has a lovely face ; 
God in his mercy lend her grace, 170 

The Lady of Shalott.' 

MARIANA IN THE SOUTH 

With one black shadow at its feet, 

The house thro' all the level shines, 
Close-latticed to the brooding heat, 

And silent in its dusty vines ; 
A faint-blue ridge upon the right, 
An empty river-bed before, 
And shallows on a distant shore, 
In glaring sand and inlets bright. 
But ' Ave Mary,' made she moan, 
And ' Ave Mary,' night and 
morn, 10 

And 'Ah,' she sang, 'to be all 
alone, 
To live forgotten, and love for- 
lorn. ' 

She, as her carol sadder grew, 

From brow and bosom slowly down 
Thro' rosy taper fingers drew 
Her streaming curls of deepest 
brown 
To left and right, and made appear 
Still-lighted in a secret shrine 
Her melancholy eyes divine, 
The home of woe without a tear. 20 
And ' Ave Mary,' was her moan, 
'Madonna, sad is night and 
morn,' 
And 'Ah,' she sang, 'to be all 
alone, 
To live forgotten, and love fop 
lorn.' 

Till all the crimson changed, and 
past 
Into deep orange o'er the sea, 
Low on her knees herself she cast, 
Before Our Lady murmur d she ; 
Complaining, ' Mother, give me grace 
To help me of my weary load.' 30 
And on the liquid mirror slow*d 
The clear perfection of her 'race. 

'Is this the form,' she made her 
moan, 
'That won his praises night and 
morn ? ' 



36 THE LADY OF SHALOTT AND OTHER POEMS 



And 'Ah,' she said, 'but I wake 


She breathed in sleep a lower 


alone, 


moan, 


I sleep forgotten, I wake for- 


And murmuring, as at night 


lorn. ' 


and morn, 




She thought, 'My spirit is here 


Nor bird would sing, nor lamb would 


alone, 


bleat, 


Walks forgotten, and is forlorn.' 




' Low on her knees herself she cast, 
Before Our Lady ' 






Nor any cloud would cross the 
vault, 
But day increased from heat to heat, 
On stony drought and steaming 
salt ; 40 

Till now at noon she slept again, 
And seem'd knee-deep in mountain 

grass, 
And heard her native breezes pass, 
And runlets babbling down the glen. 



Dreaming, she knew it was a dream ; 

She felt he was and was not there. 50 
She woke ; the babble of the stream 

Fell, and, without, the steady glare 
Shrank ' one sick willow sere and 
small. 

The river-bed was dusty-white ; 

And all the furnace of the light 
Struck up against the blinding wall. 
She whisper'd, with a stifled moan 



THE TWO VOICES 



37 



More inward than at night or 

morn, 
'Sweet Mother, let me not here 

alone 
Live forgotten and die forlorn/ 

And, rising, from her bosom drew 61 
Old letters, breathing of her worth, 
For 'Love/ they said, 'must needs be 
true, 
To what is loveliest upon earth/ 
An image seem'd to pass the door, 
To look at her with slight, and say 
' But now thy beauty flows away, 
So be alone for evermore/ 

'O cruel heart/ she changed her 
tone, 
'And cruel love, whose end is 
scorn, 70 

Is this the end, to be left alone, 
To live forgotten, and die for- 
lorn?' 

But sometimes in the falling day 

An image seem'd to pass the door, 
To look into her eyes and say, 

'But thou shalt be alone no more/ 
And flaming downward over all 
From heat to heat the day decreased, 
And slowly rounded to the east 
The one black shadow from the wall. 
'The day to night,' she made her 
moan, 81 

' The day to night, the night to 
morn, 
And day and night I am left alone 
To live forgotten, and love for- 
lorn.' 

At eve a dry cicala sung, 

There came a sound as of the sea ; 
Backward the lattice-blind she flung, 

And lean'd upon the balcony. 
There all in spaces rosy-bright 
Large Hesper glitter'd on her tears, 
And deepening thro' the silent 
spheres 9 1 

Heaven over heaven rose the night. 
And weeping then she made her 
moan, 
' The night comes on that knows 
not morn, 
When I shall cease to be all 
alone, 
To live forgotten, and love for- 
lorn.' 



THE TWO VOICES 

A still small voice spake unto me, 
' Thou art so full of misery. 
Were it not better not to be ? ' 

Then to the still small voice I said : 
' Let me not cast in endless shade 
What is so wonderfully made.' 

To which the voice did urge reply : 

' To-day I saw the dragon-fly 

Come from the wells where he did lie. 

' An inner impulse rent the veil 10 

Of his old husk ; from head to tail 
Came out clear plates of sapphire mail. 

' He dried his wings ; like gauze they 

grew ; 
Thro' crofts and pastures wet with dew 
A living flash of light he flew.' 

I said : ' When first the world began, 
Young Nature thro' five cycles ran, 
And in the sixth she moulded man. 

' She gave him mind, the lordliest 
Proportion, and, above the rest, 20 
Dominion in the head and breast.' 

Thereto the silent voice replied : 

' Self -blinded are you by your pride ; 

Look up thro' night ; the world is wide. 

' This truth within thy mind rehearse, 

That in a boundless universe 

Is boundless better, boundless worse. 

' Think you this mould of hopes and 

fears 
Could find no statelier than his peers 
In yonder hundred million spheres ? ' 30 

It spake, moreover, in my mind : 

' Tho' thou wert scatter d to the wind, 

Yet is there plenty of the kind.' 

Then did my response clearer fall : 
' No compound of this earthly ball 
Is like another, all in all.' 

To which he answer'd scoffingly : 

' Good soul ! suppose I grant it 

thee, 
Who '11 weep for thy deficiency ? 



38 THE LADY OF SHALOTT AND OTHER POEMS 



' Or will one beam be less intense, 40 

When thy peculiar difference 

Is cancell'd in the world of sense?' 

I would have said, 'Thou canst not 

know,' 
But my full heart, that work'd below, 
Rain'd thro' my sight its overflow. 

Again the voice spake unto me : 
1 Thou art so steep'd in misery, 
Surely 'twere better not to be. 

' Thine anguish will not let thee sleep, 
Nor any train of reason keep ; 50 

Thou canst not think, but thou wilt 
weep/ 

I said : 'The years with change ad- 
vance ; 
If I make dark my countenance, 
I shut my life from happier chance. 

' Some turn this sickness yet might 

take, 
Even yet.' But he : 'What drug can 

make 
A wither' d palsy cease to shake ? ' 

I wept : ' Tho' I should die, I know 
That all about the thorn will blow 
In tufts of rosy-tinted snow ; 60 

'And men, thro' novel spheres of 

thought 
Still moving after truth long sought, 
Will learn new things when I am not. ' 

'Yet,' said the secret voice, 'some 

time, 
Sooner or later, will gray prime 
Make thy grass hoar with early rime. 

'Not less swift souls that yearn for 

light, 
Rapt after heaven's starry flight, 
Would sweep the tracts of day and 

night. 

1 Not less the bee would range her cells, 
The furzy prickle fire the dells, 71 

The foxglove cluster dappled bells.' 

I said that ' all the years invent ; 
Each month is various to present 
The world with some development. 



' Were this not well, to bide mine 

hour, 
Tho' watching from a ruin'd tower 
How grows the day of human power? ' 

' The highest -mounted mind,' he said, 
' Still sees the sacred morning spread 
The silent summit overhead. 81 

' Will thirty seasons render plain 
Those lonely lights that still remain, 
Just breaking over land and main ? 

'Or make that morn, from his cold 

crown 
And crystal silence creeping down 
Flood with full daylight glebe and 

town ? 

'Forerun thy peers, thy time, and 

let 
Thy feet, millenniums hence, be set 
In midst of knowledge, dream'd not 

yet. 90 

' Thou hast not gain'd a real height, 
Nor art thou nearer to the light, 
Because the scale is infinite. 

' 'T were better not to breathe or speak, 
Than cry for strength, remaining 

weak, 
And seem to find, but still to seek. 

' Moreover, but to seem to find 

Asks what thou lackest, thought 

resign' d, 
A healthy frame, a quiet mind.' 

I said : ' When I am gone away, 100 
" He dared not tarry," men will say, 
Doing dishonor to my clay.' 

' This is more vile,' he made reply, 
' To breathe and loathe, to live and 

sigh, 
Than once from dread of pain to die. 

' Sick art thou — a divided will 
Still heaping on the fear of ill 
The fear of men, a coward still. 

'Do men love thee? Art thou so 

bound 
To men that how thy name may sound 
Will vex thee lying underground ? m 



THE TWO VOICES 



39 



I The memory of the wither'd leaf 
In endless time is scarce more brief 
Than of the garner'd autumn-sheaf. 

' Go, vexed spirit, sleep in trust ; 
The right ear that is fill'd with dust 
Hears little of theialse or just/ 

'Hard task, to pluck resolve/ I cried, 
' From emptiness and the waste wide 
Of that abyss, or scornful pride ! 120 

' Nay — rather yet that I could raise 
One hope that warm'd me in the days 
While still I yearn' d for human praise. 

■ When, wide in soul and bold of 

tongue, 
Among the tents I paused and sung, 
The distant battle flash'd and rung. 

I I sung the joyful Paean clear, 
And, sitting, burnish'd without fear 
The brand, the buckler, and the 

spear — 

1 Waiting to strive a happy strife, 130 
To war with falsehood to the knife, 
And not to lose the good of life — 

' Some hidden principle to move, 
To put together, part and prove, 
And mete the bounds of hate and 
love — 

1 As far as might be, to carve out 
Free space for every human doubt, 
That the whole mind might orb 
about — 

1 To search thro' all I felt or saw, 
The springs of life, the depths of awe, 
And reach the law within the law ; 141 

1 At least, not rotting like a weed, 
But, having sown some generous seed, 
Fruitful of further thought and deed, 

'To pass, when Life her light with- 
draws, 
Not void of righteous self-applause, 
Nor in a merely selfish cause — 

' In some good cause, not in mine own, 
To perish, wept for, honor'd, known, 
And like a warrior overthrown ; 150 



' Whose eyes are dim with glorious 

tears, 
When, soil'd with noble dust, he 

hears 
His country's war-song thrill his ears : 

' Then dying of a mortal stroke, 
What time the foeman's line is broke, 
And all the war is roll'd in smoke.' 

1 Yea ! ' said the voice, ' thy dream was 

good, 
While thou abodest in the bud. 
It was the stirring of the blood. 

' If Nature put not forth her power 
About the opening of the flower, 161 
Who is it that could live an hour ? 

'Then comes the check, the change, 

the fall, 
Pain rises up, old pleasures pall. 
There is one remedy for all. 

'Yet hadst thou, thro' enduring pain, 
Link'd month to month with such a 

chain 
Of knitted purport, all were vain. 

'Thou hadst not between death and 

birth 
Dissolved the riddle of the earth. 170 
So were thy labor little worth. 

'That men with knowledge merely 

play'd, 
I told thee — hardly nigher made, 
Tho' scaling slow from grade to grade ; 

'Much less this dreamer, deaf and 

blind, 
Named man, may hope some truth to 

find, 
That bears relation to the mind. 

' For every worm beneath the moon 
Draws different threads, and late and 

soon 
Spins, toiling out his own cocoon. r8o 

' Cry, faint not : either Truth is born 
Beyond the polar gleam forlorn. 
Or in the gateways of the morn. 

' Cry, faint not, climb : the summits 
slope 



4 o THE LADY OF SHALOTT AND OTHER POEMS 



Beyond the furthest flights of hope, 
Wrapt in dense cloud from base to 
cope. 

I Sometimes a little corner shines, 
As over rainy mist inclines 

A gleaming crag with belts of pines. 

I I will go forward, sayest thou, i 9 o 
I shall not fail to find her now. 
Look up, the fold is on her brow. 

1 If straight thy track, or if oblique, 
Thou know' st not. Shadows thou dost 

strike, 
Embracing cloud, Ixion-like ; 

1 And owning but a little more 
Than beasts, abidest lame and poor, 
Calling thyself a little lower 

' Than angels. Cease to wail and 

brawl ! 
Why inch by inch to darkness crawl ? 
There is one remedy for all/ 201 

'O dull, one-sided voice/ said I, 
1 Wilt thou make everything a lie, 
To flatter me that I may die ? 

' I know that age to age succeeds, 
Blowing a noise of tongues and 

deeds, 
A dust of systems and of creeds. 

' I cannot hide that some have striven, 
Achieving calm, to whom was given 
The joy that mixes man with Heaven ; 

'Who, rowing hard against the 
stream, 211 

Saw distant gates of Eden gleam, 
And did not dream it was a dream ; 

' But heard, by secret transport led, 
Even in the charnels of the dead, 
The murmur of the fountain-head — ' 

' Which did accomplish their desire, 
Bore and forebore, and did not tire, 
Like Stephen, an unquenched fire. 

* He heeded not reviling tones, 220 
Nor sold his heart to idle moans, 
Tho' cursed ami scorn'd, and bruised 
with stones ; 



' But looking upward, full of grace, 
He pray'd, and from a happy place 
God's glory smote him on the face/ 

The sullen answer slid betwixt : 
'Not that the grounds of hope were 

fix'd, 
The elements were kindlier mix'd/ 

I said : ' I toil beneath the curse, 
But, knowing not the universe, 230 
I fear to slide from bad to worse ; 

' And that, in seeking to undo 
One riddle, and to find the true, 
I knit a hundred others new ; 

' Or that this anguish fleeting hence, 
Unmanacled from bonds of sense, 
Be fix'd and frozen to permanence : 

'For I go, weak from suffering here ; 
Naked I go, and void of cheer : 
What is it that I may not fear ? ' 240 

' Consider well,' the voice replied, 

' His face, that two hours since hath 

died; 
Wilt thou find passion, pain or pride ? 

' Will he obey when one commands ? 
Or answer should one press his hands? 
He answers not, nor understands. 

' His palms are folded on his breast ; 
There is no other thing express'd 
But long disquiet merged in rest. 



250 
the 



' His lips are very mild and meek 
Tho' one should smite him on 

cheek, 
And on the mouth, he will not speak 



' His little daughter, whose sweet face 
He kiss'd, taking his last embrace, 
Becomes dishonor to her race — 

'His sons grow up that bear his 

name, 
Some grow to honor, some to shame, — 
But he is chill to praise or blame. 

' He will not hear the north- wind rave, 

Nor, moaning, household shelter 

crave 260 

From winter rains that beat his grave. 



THE TWO VOICES 



4i 



1 High up the vapors fold and swim ; 
About him broods the twilight dim ; 
The place he knew forgetteth him.' 

' If all be dark, vague voice,' I said, 
' These things are wrapt in doubt and 

dread, 
Nor canst thou show the dead are 

dead. 

1 The sap dries up ; the plant de- 
clines. 

A deeper tale my heart divines. 

Know I not death ? the outward 
signs ? 270 

'I found him when my years were 

few ; 
A shadow on the graves I knew, 
And darkness in the village yew. 

'From grave to grave the shadow 

crept ; 
In her still place the morning wept ; 
Touch'd by his feet the daisy slept. 

1 The simple senses crown'd his head : 
" Omega ! thou art Lord," they said, 
" We find no motion in the dead ! " 

' Why, if man rot in dreamless ease, 280 
Should that plain fact, as taught by 

these, 
Not make him sure that he shall 

cease ? 

1 Who forged that other influence, 
That heat of inward evidence, 
By which he doubts against the 
sense? 

' He owns the fatal gift of eyes, 
That read his spirit blindly wise, 
Not simple as a thing that dies. 

1 Here sits he shaping wings to fly ; 
His heart forebodes a mystery ; 290 
He names the name Eternity. 

1 That type of Perfect in his mind 
In Nature can he nowhere find. 
He sows himself on every wind. 

1 He seems to hear a Heavenly Friend, 
And thro' thick veils to apprehend 
A labor working to an end. 



' The end and the beginning vex 
His reason : many things perplex, 
With motions, checks, and counter- 
checks. 300 

' He knows a baseness in his blood 
At such strange war with something 

good, 
He may not do the thing he would. 

' Heaven opens inward, chasms yawn, 
Vast images in glimmering dawn, 
Half shown, are broken and with- 
drawn. 

' Ah ! sure within him and without, 
Could his dark wisdom find it out, 
There must be answer to his doubt, 

' But thou canst answer not again. 310 
With thine own weapon art thou 

slain, 
Or thou wilt answer but in vain. 

' The doubt would rest, I dare not 

solve. 
In the same circle we revolve. 
Assurance only breeds resolve.' 

As when a billow, blown against, 
Falls back, the voice with which I 

fenced 
A little ceased, but recommenced : 

'Where wert thou when thy father 

play'd 
In his free field, and pastime made, 320 
A merry boy in sun and shade ? 

' A merry boy they call'd him then, 
He sat upon the knees of men 
In days that never come again ; 

1 Before the little ducts began 

To feed thy bones with lime, and 

ran 
Their course, till thou wert also man : 

' Who took a wife, who rear'd his race. 
Whose wrinkles gather'd on his face. 
Whose troubles number with his 
days ; 330 

' A life of nothings, nothing worth, 
From that first nothing ere his birth 
To that last nothing under earth ! " 



42 THE LADY OF SHALOTT AND OTHER POEMS 



' These words,' I said, ' are -like the 

rest; 
No certain clearness, but at best 
A vague suspicion of the breast : 

' But if I grant, thou mightst defend 
The thesis which thy words intend — 
That to begin implies to end ; 

' Yet how should I for certain hold, 340 
Because my memory is so cold, 
That I first was in human mould ? 

1 1 cannot make this matter plain, 
But I would shoot, howe'er in vain, 
A random arrow from the brain. 

' It may be that no life is found. 
Which only to one engine bound 
Falls off, but cycles always round. 

1 As old mythologies relate, 
Some draught of Lethe might await 350 
The slipping thro' from state to 
state ; 

' As here we find in trances, men 
Forget the dream that happens then, 
Until they fall in trance again ; 

' So might we, if our state were such 
As one before, remember much, 
For those two likes might meet and 
touch. 

1 But, if I lapsed from nobler place, 

Some legend of a fallen race 

Alone might hint of my disgrace ; 360 

' Some vague emotion of delight 
In gazing up an Alpine height, 
Some yearning toward the lamps of 
night ; 

1 Or if thro' lower lives I came — 
Tho' all experience past became 
Consolidate in mind and frame — 

' I might forget my weaker lot ; 
For is not our first year forgot ? 
The haunts of memory echo not. 

'And men, whose reason long was 
blind, 370 

From cells of madness unconfined, 
Oft lose whole years of darker mind. 



' Much more, if first I floated free, 
As naked essence, must I be 
Incompetent of memory ; 

1 For memory dealing but with time, 
And he with matter, could she climb 
Beyond her own material prime ? 

' Moreover, something is or seems, 
That touches me with mystic 
gleams, 380 

Like glimpses of forgotten dreams — 

' Of something felt, like something 

here ; 
Of something done, I know not where ; 
Such as no language may declare.' 

The still voice laugh'd. ' I talk,' said 

he, 
' Not with thy dreams. Suffice it thee 
Thy pain is a reality.' 

'But thou,' said I, 'hast missed thy 

mark, 
Who sought' st to wreck my mortal 

ark, 
By making all the horizon dark. 390 

' Why not set forth, if I should do 
This rashness, that which might en- 
sue 
With this old soul in organs new ? 

' Whatever crazy sorrow saith, 

No life that breathes with human 

breath 
Has ever truly long'd for death. 

"Tis life, whereof our nerves are 

scant, 
O, life, not death, for which we pant ; 
More life, and fuller, that I want.' 

I ceased, and sat as one forlorn. 400 
Then said the voice, in quiet scorn 
'Behold, it is the Sabbath morn.' 

And I arose, and I released 

The casement, and the light increased 

With freshness in the dawning east. 

Like soften'd airs that blowing steal, 
When meres begin to uncongeal, 
The sweet church bells began to 
peal. 



THE TWO VOICES 



43 



On to God's house the people prest ; 
Passing the place where each must 
rest, 4 IO 

Each enter'd like a welcome guest. 

One walk'd between his wife and child, 
With measured footfall firm and mild,' 
And now and then he gravely smiled. 

The prudent partner of his blood 
Lean'd on him, faithful, gentle, good, 
Wearing the rose of womanhood. 

And in their double love secure, 
The little maiden walk'd demure, 
Pacing with downward eyelids pure. 



These three made unity so sweet, 42 i 
My frozen heart began to beat, 
Remembering its ancient heat. 

I blest them, and they wander'd on ; 
I spoke, but answer came there 

none ; 
The dull and bitter voice was gone. 

A second voice was at mine ear, 

A little whisper silver-clear, 

A murmur, ' Be of better cheer.' 

As from some blissful neighborhood, 
A notice faintly understood, 4 ' 3r 

'I see the end, and know the good.' 




' I wcnder'd, while I paced along ; 
The woods were fillM so full with song ' 



44 THE LADY OF SHALOTT AND OTHER POEMS 



A little hint to solace woe, 

A hint, a whisper breathing low, 

' I may not speak of what I know.' 

Like an ^Eolian harp that wakes 

No certain air, but overtakes 

Far thought with music that it makes ; 

Such seem'd the whisper at my side : 
'What is it thou knowest, sweet 
voice?' I cried. 440 

'A hidden hope,' the voice replied ; 

So heavenly-toned, that in that hour 
From out my sullen heart a power 
Broke, like the rainbow from the 
shower, 

To feel, altho' no tongue can prove, 
That every cloud, that spreads above 
And veileth love, itself is love. 

And forth into the fields I went, 
And Nature's living motion lent 
The pulse of hope to discontent. 450 

I wonder'd at the bounteous hours, 
The slow result of winter showers ; 
You scarce could see the grass for 
flowers. 

I wonder d, while I paced along ; 
The woods were fill'd so full with song, 
There seem'd no room for sense of 
wrong ; 

And all so variously wrought, 

I mar veil' d how the mind was brought 

To anchor by one gloomy thought ; 

And wherefore rather I made choice 460 
To commune with that barren voice, 
Than him that said, 'Rejoice! Re- 
joice !' 



THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER 

I see the wealthy miller yet, 

His double chin, his portly size, 
And who that knew him could forget 

The busy wrinkles round his eyes ? 
The slow wise smile that, round about 

His dusty forehead drily curl'd, 
Seem'd half-within and half-without, 

And full of dealings with the world? 



In yonder chair I see him sit, 

Three fingers round the old silver 

CUp — 10 

I see his gray eyes twinkle yet 
At his own jest — gray eyes lit up 

With summer lightnings of a soul 
So full of summer warmth, so glad, 

So healthy, sound, and clear and whole, 
His memory scarce can make me 



Yet fill my glass ; give me one kiss : 

My own sweet Alice, we must die. 
There 's somewhat in this world amiss 

Shall be unriddled by and by. 20 
There 's somewhat flows to us in life, 

But more is taken quite away. 
Pray, Alice, pray, my darling wife, 

That we may die the self-same day. 

Have I not found a happy earth? 

I least should breathe a thought of 
pain. 
Would God renew me from my birth, 

I'd almost live my life again ; 
So sweet it seems with thee to walk. 

And once again to woo thee mine — 
It seems in after-dinner talk 31 

Across the walnuts and the wine — 

To be the long and listless boy 

Late -left an orphan of the squire, 
Where this old mansion mounted high 

Looks down upon the village spire ; 
For even here, where I and you 

Have lived and loved alone so long, 
Each morn my sleep was broken thro' 

By some wild skylark's matin song. 

And oft I heard the tender dove 41 

In firry woodlands making moan ; 
But ere I saw your eyes, my love, 

I had no motion of my own. 
For scarce my life with fancy play'd 

Before I dream'd that pleasant 
dream — 
Still hither thither idly sway'd 

Like those long mosses in the stream. 

Or from the bridge I lean'd to hear 
The milldam rushing down with 
noise, 50 

And see the minnows everywhere 
In crystal eddies glance and poise. 

The tall flag-flowers when they sprung 
Below the range of stepping-stones, 



THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER 



45 



Or those three chestnuts near, that 
hung 
In masses thick with milky cones. 

But, Alice, what an hour was that, 

When after roving in the woods 
('T was April then), I came and sat 

Below the chestnuts, when their buds 
Were glistening to the breezy blue ; 61 

And on the slope, an absent fool, 
I cast me down, nor thought of you, 

But angled in the higher pool. 

A love-song I had somewhere read, 

An echo from a measured strain, 
Beat time to nothing in my head 

From some odd corner of the brain. 
It haunted me, the morning long, 

With weary sameness in the rhymes, 
The phantom of a silent song, 71 

That went and came a thousand 
times. 

Then leapt a trout. In lazy mood 

I watch' d the little circles die ; 
They past into the level flood, 

And there a vision caught my eye ; 
The reflex of a beauteous form, 

A glowing arm, a gleaming neck, 
As when a sunbeam wavers warm 

Within the dark and dimpled beck. 

For you remember, you had set, 81 
That morning, on the casement-edge 
A long green box of mignonette, 
And you were leaning from the 
ledge ; 
And when I raised my eyes, above 
They met with two so full and 
bright — 
Such eyes ! I swear to you, my love, 
That these have never lost their 
light. 

I loved, and love dispell'd the fear 

That I should die an early death ; 90 
For love possess' d the atmosphere, 

And fill'd the breast with purer 
breath. 
My mother thought, What ails the boy ? 

For I was alter'd, and began 
To move about the house with joy, 

And with the certain step of man. 

I loved the brimming wave that swam 
Thro' quiet meadows round the mill, 



The sleepy pool above the dam, 
The pool beneath it never still, 100 

The meal-sacks on the whiten' d floor, 
The dark round of the dripping 
wheel, 

The very air about the door 
Made misty with the floating meal. 

And oft in r amblings on the wold, 

When April nights began to blow, 
And April's crescent glimmer' d cold, 

I saw the village lights below ; 
I knew your taper far away, 

And full at heart of trembling 
hope, no 

From off the wold I came, and lay 

Upon the freshly-flower'd slope. 

The deep brook groan' d beneath the 
mill ; 

And ' by that lamp,' I thought, ' she 
sits ! ' 
The white chalk-quarry from the hill 

Gleam' d to the flying moon by tits. 
' O, that I were beside her now ! 

O, will she answer if I call ? 
O, would she give me vow for vow, 

Sweet Alice, if I told her all ?' 120 

Sometimes I saw you sit and spin ; 

And, in the pauses of the wind, 
Sometimes I heard you sing within ; 

Sometimes your shadow cross'd the 
blind. 
At last you rose and moved the light, 

And the long shadow of the chair 
Flitted across into the night, 

And all the casement darken'd there. 

But when at last I dared to speak, 
The lanes, you know, were white 
with may; 130 

Your ripe lips moved not, but your 
cheek 
Flush' d like the coming of the 
day; 
And so it was — half-sly, half-shy. 
You would, and would not, little 
one ! 
Although I pleaded tenderly. 
And you and I were all alone. 

And slowly was my mother brought 
To yield consent* to my desire . 

She wish'd me happy, but she thought 
I might have look'd a little higher: 



46 THE LADY OF SHALOTT AND OTHER POEMS 




' And rose, and, with a silent grace 

Approaching, press' d you heart to heart ' 



And I was young — too young to wed: 
' Yet must I love her for your sake ; 

Go fetch your Alice here/ she said : 
Her eyelid quiver'd as she spake. 

And down I went to fetch my bride : 

But, Alice, you were ill at ease ; 
This dress and that by turns you tried, 

Too fearful that you should not 
please. 
I loved you better for your fears, 

I knew you could not look but well ; 

And dews, that would have fallen in 

tears, 151 

I kiss'd away before they fell. 

I watch'd the little flutterings, 
The doubt my mother would not see; 



She spoke at large of many things, 
And at the last she spoke of 
me ; 
And turning look'd upon your face, 

As near this door you sat apart, 
And rose, and, with a silent grace 
Approaching, press'd you heart to 
heart. 160 

Ah, well — but sing the foolish song 

I gave you, Alice, on the day 
When, arm in arm, we went along, 

A pensive pair, and you were gay 
With bridal flowers — that I may seem, 

As in the nights of old, to lie 
Beside the mill-wheel in the stream, 

While those full chestnuts whisper 

by. 



FATIMA 



47 



It is the miller's daughter, 

And she is grown so dear, so dear, 

That I would be the jewel 171 

That trembles in her ear; 

For hid in ringlets day and night, 

I 'd touch her neck so warm and white. 

And I would be the girdle 
About her dainty dainty waist, 

And her heart would beat against me, 
In sorrow and in rest ; 

And I should know if it beat right, 

I 'd clasp it round so close and tight. 

And I would be the necklace, 181 

And all day long to fall and rise 

Upon her balmy bosom, 

With her laughter or her sighs ; 

And I would lie so light, so light, 

I scarce should be unclasp' d at night. 

A trifle, sweet ! which true love spells — 

True love interprets — right alone. 
His light upon the letter dwells, 

For all the spirit is his own. 190 

So, it* I waste words now, in truth 

You must blame Love. His early 
rage 
Had force to make me rhyme in youth, 

And makes me talk too much in age. 

And now those vivid hours are gone, 

Like mine own life to me thou art, 
Where Past and Present, wound in one, 

Do make a garland for the heart ; 
So sing that other song I made, 

Half -anger' d with my happy lot, 200 
The day, when in the chestnut shade 

I found the blue forget-me-not. 

Love that hath us in the net, 
Can he pass, and we forget? 
Many suns arise and set; 
Many a chance the years beget; 
Love the gift is Love the debt. 

Even so. 
Love is hurt with jar and fret ; 
Love is made a vague regret; 210 
Eyes with idle tears are wet ; 
Idle habit links us yet. 
What is love? for we forget: 

Ah, no! no! 

Look thro' mine eyes with thine. True 
wife, 
Round my true heart thine arms 
entwine ; 
My other dearer life in life, 

Look thro' my very soul with thine ! 
Untouch' d with any shade of years, 
May those kind eyes for ever dwell ! 



They have not shed a many tears, 221 
Dear eyes, since first I knew them 
well. 

Yet tears they shed ; they had their 
part 
Of sorrow; for when time was 
ripe, 
The still affection of the heart 

Became an outward breathing type, 
That into stillness past again, 

And left a want unknown before ; 
Although the loss had brought us 
pain, 
That loss but made us love the 
more, 230 

With farther lookings on. The kiss, 

The woven arms, seem but to be 
Weak symbols of the settled bliss, 

The comfort, I have found in thee ; 
But that God bless thee, dear — who 
wrought 

Two spirits to one equal mind — 
With blessings beyond hope or thought, 

With blessings which no words can 
find. 

Arise, and let us wander forth 

To yon old mill across the wolds ; 240 
For look, the sunset, south and north, 

Winds all the vale in rosy folds, 
And fires your narrow casement glass, 

Touching the sullen pool below ; 
On the chalk-hill the bearded grass 

Is dry and dewless. Let us go. 



FATIMA 

O Love, Love, Love ! O withering 
might ! 

sun, that from thy noonday height 
Shudderest when I strain my sight, 
Throbbing thro' all thy heat and light, 

Lo, falling from my constant mind, 
Lo, parch' d and witherd, deaf and 

blind, 
I whirl like leaves in roaring wind. 

Last night I wasted hateful hours 
Below the city's eastern towers: 

1 thirsted for the brooks, the showers; 
I roll'd among the tender flowers; 

I crush'd them on my breast, my 
mouth ; 



48 THE LADY OF SHALOTT AND OTHER POEMS 



I look'd athwart the burning drouth 
Of that long desert to the south. 

Last night, when some one spoke his 

name, 
From my swift blood that went and 

came 
A thousand little shafts of flame 
Were shiver' d in my narrow frame. 

Love, O fire ! once he drew 
With one long kiss my whole soul 

thro' 
My lips, as sunlight drinketh dew. 

Before he mounts the hill, I know 
He cometh quickly ; from below 
Sweet gales, as from deep gardens, 

blow 
Before him, striking on my brow. 
In my dry brain my spirit soon, 
Down - deepening from swoon to 

swoon, 
Faints like a dazzled morning moon. 

The wind sounds like a silver wire, 
And from beyond the noon a fire 
Is pour'd upon the hills, and nigher 
The skies stoop down in their desire ; 
And, isled in sudden seas of light, 
My heart, pierced thro' with fierce 

delight, 
Bursts into blossom in his sight. 

My whole soul waiting silently, 
All naked in a sultry sky, 
Droops blinded with his shining eye ; 
I will possess him or will die. 

1 will grow round him in his place, 
Grow, live, die looking on his face, 
Die, dying clasp' d in his embrace. 



(ENONE 

There lies a vale in Ida, lovelier 

Than all the valleys of Ionian hills. 

The swimming vapor slopes athwart 
the glen, 

Puts forth an arm, and creeps from 
pine to pine, 

And loiters, slowly drawn. On either 
hand 

The lawns and meadow-ledges mid- 
way down 

Hang rich in flowers, and far below 
them roars 



The long brook falling thro' the cloven 
ravine 

In cataract after cataract to the sea. 

Behind the valley topmost Gargarus 

Stands up and takes the morning ; but 
in front n 

The gorges, opening wide apart, re- 
veal 

Troas and Ilion's column' d citadel, 

The crown of Troas. 

Hither came at noon 

Mournful CEnone, wandering forlorn 

Of Paris, once her playmate on the 
hills. 

Her cheek had lost the rose, and round 
her neck 

Floated her hair or seem'd to float in 
rest. 

She, leaning on a fragment twined 
with vine, 

Sang to the stillness, till the moun- 
tain-shade 20 

Sloped downward to her seat from the 
, upper cliff. 

' O mother Ida, many-f ountain'd Ida, 
Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. 
For now the noonday quiet holds the 

hill; 
The grasshopper is silent in the grass ; 
The lizard, with his shadow on the 

stone, 
Rests like a shadow, and the winds are 

dead. 
The purple flower droops, the golden 

bee 
Is lily-cradled ; I alone awake. 
My eyes are full of tears, my heart of 
" love, 30 

My heart is breaking, and my eyes 

are dim, 
And I am all aweary of my life. 

' O mother Ida, many-f ountain'd Ida, 
Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. 
Hear me, O earth, hear me, O hills, 

caves 
That house the cold crown'd snake ! 

O mountain brooks, 
I am the daughter of a River- God, 
Hear me, for I will speak, and build 

up all 
My sorrow with my song, as yonder 

walls 
Rose slowly to a music slowly 

breathed, 40 



CENONE 



49 



A cloud that gather 'd shape ; for it 

may be 
That, while I speak of it, a little 

while 
My heart may wander from its deeper 

woe. 

' O mother Ida, many - fountain'd 
Ida, 

Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. 

I waited underneath the dawning hills ; 

Aloft the mountain lawn was dewy- 
dark, 

And dewy-dark aloft the mountain 
pine. 

Beautiful Paris, evil-hearted Paris, 

Leading a jet-black goat white-horn'd, 
white-hooved, 50 

Came up from reedy Simois all alone. 

1 mother Ida, harken ere I die. 
Far-off the torrent call'd me from the 
cleft ; 



Far up the solitary morning smote 

The streaks of virgin snow. With 
down-dropt eyes 

I sat alone ; white - breasted like a 
star 

Fronting the dawn he moved ; a leo- 
pard skin 

Droop' d from his shoulder, but his 
sunny hair 

Cluster'd about his temples like a 
God's ; 

And his cheek brighten'd as the foam- 
bow brightens 60 

When the wind blows the foam, and 
all my heart 

Went forth to embrace him coming 
ere he came. 

' Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. 

He smiled, and opening out his milk- 
white palm 

Disclosed a fruit of pure Hesperian 
gold, 




• Troas and Ilion's column'd citadel 



5 o THE LADY OF SHALOTT AND OTHER POEMS 



That smelt ambrosially, and while I 
look'd 

And listen' d, the full-flowing river of 
speech 

Came down upon my heart : 

' " My own (Enone, 

Beautiful-brow'd (Enone, my own soul, 

Behold this fruit, whose gleaming rind 
ingraven 70 

Tor the most fair/ would seem to 
award it thine, 

As lovelier than whatever Oread haunt 

The knolls of Ida, loveliest in all 
grace 

Of movement, and the charm of mar- 
ried brows." 

' Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. 
He prest the blossom of his lips to 

mine, 
And added, " This was cast upon the 

board, 
When all the full-faced presence of 

the Gods 
Ranged in the halls of Peleus ; where- 
upon 
Rose feud, with question unto whom 

'twere due ; 80 

But light-foot Iris brought it yester- 

eve, 
Delivering, that to me, by common 

voice 
Elected umpire, Her& comes to-day, 
Pallas and Aphrodite, claiming each 
This meed of fairest. Thou, within 

the cave 
Behind yon whispering tuft of oldest 

pine, 
May st well behold them unbeheld, 

unheard 
Hear all, and see thy Paris judge of 

Gods." 

1 Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. 

It was the deep midnoon ; one silvery 
cloud . 90 

Had lost his way between the piny 
sides 

Of this long glen. Then to the bower 
they came, 

Naked they came to that smooth- 
swarded bower. 

And at their feet the crocus brake like 
fire, 

Violet, amaracus, and asphodel, 

Lotos and lilies ; and a wind arose, 



And overhead the wandering ivy and 

vine, 
This way and that, in many a wild 

festoon 
Ran riot, garlanding the gnarled 

boughs 
With bunch and berry and flower thro' 

and thro'. 100 

' O mother Ida, harken ere I die. 
On the tree-tops a crested peacock 

lit, 
And o'er him flow'd a golden cloud, 

and lean'd 
Upon him, slowly dropping fragrant 

dew. 
Then first I heard the voice of her to 

whom 
Coming thro' heaven, like a light that 

grows 
Larger and clearer, with one mind the 

Gods 
Rise up for reverence. She to Paris 

made 
Proffer of royal power, ample rule 
Unquestion'd, overflowing revenue no 
Wherewith to embellish state, "from 

many a vale 
And river-sunder'd champaign clothed 

with corn, 
Or labor'd mine undrainable of ore. 
Honor," she said, "and homage, tax 

and toll, 
From many an inland town and haven 

large, 
Mast-throng'd beneath her shadowing 

citadel 
In glassy bays among her tallest 

towers." 

' O mother Ida, harken ere I die. 

Still she spake on and still she spake 
of power, 

"Which in all action is the end of 
all ; 120 

Power fitted to the season ; wisdom- 
bred 

And throned of wisdom — from all 
neighbor crowns 

Alliance and allegiance, till thy hand 

Fail from the sceptre-staff. Such boon 
from me, 

From me, heaven's queen, Paris, to 
thee king-born, 

A shepherd all thy life but yet king- 
born, 



GENONE 



5i 



Should come most welcome, seeing 
men, in power 

Only, are likest Gods, who have at- 
tain'd 

Kest in a happy place and quiet seats 

Above the thunder, with undying 
bliss 130 

In knowledge of their own supre- 
macy." 

* Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. 
She ceased, and Paris held the costly 

fruit 
Out at arm's-length, so much the 

thought of power 
Flatter'd his spirit ; but Pallas where 

she stood 
Somewhat apart, her clear and bared 

limbs 
O'erthwarted with the brazen-headed 

spear 
Upon her pearly shoulder leaning cold, 
The while, above, her full and earnest 

eye 
Over her snow-cold breast and angry 

cheek 140 

Kept watch, waiting decision, made 

reply : 

* " Self-reverence, self - knowledge, 

self-control, 

These three alone lead life to sover- 
eign power. 

Yet not for power (power of herself 

Would come uncall'd for) but to live 
by law, 

Acting the law we live by without 
fear; 

And, because right is right, to follow 
right 

Were wisdom in the scorn of conse- 
quence/' 

' Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. 
Again she said : " I woo thee not with 

gifts. 150 

Sequel of guerdon could not alter me 
To fairer. Judge thou me by what I 

am, 
So shalt thou find me fairest. 

Yet, indeed, 
If gazing on divinity disrobed 
Thy mortal eyes are frail to judge of 

fair, 
Unbias'd by self-profit, O, rest thee 

sure 



That I shall love thee well and cleave 

to thee, 
So that my vigor, wedded to thy 

blood, 
Shall strike within thy pulses, like a 

God's, 
To push thee forward thro' a life of 

shocks, 160 

Dangers, and deeds, until endurance 

grow 
Sinew'd with action, and the full- 
grown will, 
Circled thro' all experiences, pure law, 
Commeasure perfect freedom." 

Here she ceas'd, 
And Paris ponder'd, and I cried, ' ' O 

Paris, 
Give it to Pallas ! " but he heard me 

not, 
Or hearing would not hear me, woe is 

me ! 

' O mother Ida, many-f ountain'd Ida, 
Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. 
Idalian Aphrodite beautiful, 170 

Fresh as the foam, new-bathed in Pa- 

phian wells, 
With rosy slender fingers backward 

drew 
From her warm brows and bosom her 

deep hair 
Ambrosial, golden round her lucid 

throat 
And shoulder ; from the violets her 

light foot 
Shone rosy-white, and o'er her rounded 

form 
Between the shadows of the vine- 
bunches 
Floated the glowing sunlights, as she 

moved. 

'Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. 
She with a subtle smile in her mild 

eyes, 180 

The herald of her triumph, drawing 

nigh 
Half-whisper'd in his ear, "I promise 

thee 
The fairest and most loving wife in 

Greece." 
She spoke and laugh'd ; I shut my 

sight for fear ; 
But when I look'd, Paris had raised 

his arm. 
And I beheld great Here's anj 



5 2 THE LADY OF SHALOTT AND OTHER POEMS 



As she withdrew into the golden cloud, 
And I was left alone within the bower ; 
And from that time to this I am alone, 
And I shall be alone until I die. 190 

' Yet, mother Ida, harken ere I die. 

Fairest — why fairest wife ? am I not 
fair? 

My love hath told me so a thousand 
times. 

Methinks I must be fair, for yesterday; 

When I past by, a wild and wanton 
pard, 

Eyed like the evening star, with play- 
ful tail 

Crouch'd fawning in the weed. Most 
loving is she ? 

Ah me, my mountain shepherd, that 
my arms 

Were wound about thee, and my hot 
lips prest 

Close, close to thine in that quick-fall- 
ing dew 200 

Of fruitful kisses, thick as autumn 
rains 

Flash in the pools of whirling Simois ! 

' O mother, hear me yet before I die. 

They came, they cut away my tallest 
pines, 

My tall dark pines, that plumed the 
craggy ledge 

High over the blue gorge, and all be- 
tween 

The snowy peak and snow-white cata- 
ract 

Foster' d the callow eaglet — from be- 
neath 

Whose thick mysterious boughs in the 
dark morn 

The panther's roar came muffled, while 
I sat 210 

Low in the valley. Never, never more 

Shall lone CEnonesee the morning mist 

Sweep thro 1 them ; never see them 
overlaid 

With narrow moonlit slips of silver 
cloud, 

Between the loud stream and the 
trembling stars. 

' O mother, hear me yet before I die. 
I wish that somewhere in the ruin'd 

folds, 
Among the fragments tumbled from 

the glens, 



Or the dry thickets, I could meet with 

her 
The Abominable, that uninvited came 
Into the fair Pelei'an banquet-hall, 221 
And cast the golden fruit upon the 

board, 
And bred this change ; that I might 

speak my mind, 
And tell her to her face how much I 

hate 
Her presence, hated both of Gods and 

men. 

' O mother, hear me yet before I 

die. 
Hath he not sworn his love a thousand 

times, 
In this green valley, under this green 

hill, 
Even on this hand, and sitting on this 

stone ? 
Seal'd it with kisses ? water'd it with 

tears ? 230 

O happy tears, and how unlike to 

these ! 
O happy heaven, how canst thou see 

my face ? 
O happy earth, how canst thou bear 

my weight ? 

death, death, death, thou ever-float- 

ing cloud, 
There are enough unhappy on this 

earth, 
Pass by the happy souls, that love to 

live ; 

1 pray thee, pass before my light of 

life, 
And shadow all my soul, that I may 

die. 
Thou weighest heavy on the heart 

within, 
Weigh heavy on my eyelids ; let me 

die. 240 

' O mother, hear me yet before I die. 
I will not die alone, for fiery thoughts 
Do shape themselves within me, more 

and more, 
Whereof I catch the issue, as I hear 
Dead sounds at night come from the 

inmost hills, 
Like footsteps upon wool. I dimly 

see 
My far-off doubtful purpose, as a 

mother 
Conjectures of the features of her child 



THE SISTERS 



53 



Ere it is born. Her child ! — a shud- 
der comes 
Across me : never child be born of me, 
Unblest, to vex me with his father's 
eyes ! 2 5i 



What this may be I know not, but I 

know 
That, wheresoe'er I am by night and 

day, 
All earth and air seem only burning fire.' 




' The wind is blowing in turret and tree ' 



' O mother, hear me yet before I die. 
Hear me, O earth. I will not die alone. 
Lest their shrill happy laughter come 

to me 
Walking the cold and starless road of 

death 
Uncomforted, leaving my ancient love 
With the Greek woman. I will rise 

and go 
Down into Troy, and ere the stars come 

forth 
Talk with the wild Cassandra, for she 

says 259 

A fire dances before her, and a sound 
Rings ever in her ears of armed men. 



THE SISTERS 

We were two daughters of one race ; 
She was the fairest in the face. 

The wind is blowing in turret and 
tree. 
They were together, and she fell ; 
Therefore revenge became me well. 

O, the earl was fair to see ! 

She died : she went to burning flame ; 
She mix'd her ancient blood with 

shame. 
The wind is howling in turret and 

tree. 



54 THE LADY OF SHALOTT AND OTHER POEMS 



Whole weeks and months, and early 

and late, 
To win his love I lay in wait. 
O, the earl was fair to see ! 

I made a feast ; I bade him come ; 
I won his love, I brought him home. 

The wind is roaring in turret and 
tree. 
And after supper, on a bed, 
Upon my lap he laid his head. 

O, the earl was fair to see ! 

I kiss'd his eyelids into rest, 

His ruddy cheek upon my breast. 

The wind is raging in turret and 
tree. 
I hated him with the hate of hell, 
But I loved his beauty passing well. 

O, the earl was fair to see ! 

I rose up in the silent night ; 
I made my dagger sharp and bright. 
The wind is raving in turret and 
tree. 
As half-asleep his breath he drew, 
Three times I stabb'd him thro' and 
thro'. 
O, the earl was fair to see ! 

I curl'd and comb'd his comely head, 
He look'd so grand when he was 
dead. 
The wind is blowing in turret and 
tree. 
I wrapt his body in the sheet, 
And laid him at his mother's feet. 
O, the earl was fair to see ! 



TO 

WITH THE FOLLOWING POEM 

I send you here a sort of allegory — 
For you will understand it — of a soul. 
A sinful soul possess'd of many gifts, 
A spacious garden full of flowering 

weeds, 
A glorious devil, large in heart and 

brain, 
That did love beauty only — beauty 

seen 
In all varieties of mould and mind — 
And knowledge for its beauty ; or if 

good, 



Good only for its beauty, seeing not 

That Beauty, Good, and Knowledge 
are three sisters 

That dote upon each other, friends to 
man, 

Living together under the same roof, 

And never can be sunder'd without 
tears. 

And he that shuts Love out, in turn 
shall be 

Shut out from Love, and on her thresh- 
old lie 

Howling in outer darkness. Not for this 

Was common clay ta'en from the com- 
mon earth 

Moulded by God, and temper' d with 
the tears 

Of angels to the perfect shape of man. 



THE PALACE OF ART 

I built my soul a lordly pleasure- 
house, 
Wherein at ease for aye to dwell. 
I said, ' O Soul, make merry and ca- 
rouse, 
Dear soul, for all is well.' 

A huge crag-platform, smooth as bur- 
nish' d brass, 
I chose. The ranged ramparts bright 
From level meadow-bases of deep grass 
Suddenly scaled the light. 

Thereon I built it* firm. Of ledge or 

shelf 

The rock rose clear, or winding 

stair. 10 

My soul would live alone unto herself 

In her high palace there. 

And ' while the world runs round and 
round,' I said, 
' Reign thou apart, a quiet king, 
Still as, while Saturn whirls, his stead- 
fast shade 
Sleeps on his luminous ring/ 

To which my soul made answer read- 
ily: 
' Trust me, in bliss I shall abide 
In this great mansion, that is built for 
me, 
So royal-rich and wide.' 20 



THE PALACE OF ART 



55 



Four courts I made, East, West and 
South and North, 
In each a squared lawn, wherefrom 
The golden gorge of dragons spouted 
forth 
A flood of fountain-foam. 

And round the cool green courts there 
ran a row 
Of cloisters, branch'd like mighty 
woods, 
Echoing all night to that sonorous 
flow 
Of spouted fountain-floods ; 

And round the roofs a gilded gallery 
That lent broad verge to distant 
lands, 30 

Far as the wild swan wings, to where 
the sky 
Dipt down to sea and sands. 

From those four jets four currents in 
one swell 
Across the mountain stream'd below 
In misty folds, that floating as they fell 
Lit up a torrent-bow. 

And high on every peak a statue 
seem'd 
To hang on tiptoe, tossing up 
A cloud of incense of all odor steam' d 
From out a golden cup. 40 

So that she thought, ' And who shall 
gaze upon 
My palace with unblinded eyes, 
While this great bow will waver in 
the sun, 
And that sweet incense rise V 

For that sweet incense rose and never 
fail'd, 
And, while day sank or mounted 
higher, 
The light aerial gallery, golden-rail'd, 
Burnt like a fringe of fire. 

Likewise the deep -set windows, stain'd 
and traced, 
Would seem slow-flaming crimson 
fires 50 

From shadow' d grots of arches inter- 
laced, 
And tipt with frost-like spires. 



Full of long-sounding corridors it was, 

That over- vaulted grateful gloom. 
Thro' which the livelong day my soul 
did pass, 
Well-pleased, from room to room. 

Full of great rooms and small the pal- 
ace stood, 
All various, each a perfect whole 
From living Nature, fit for every mood 
And change of my still soul. 60 

For some were hung with arras green 
and blue, 
Showing a gaudy summer-morn, 
Where with pufFd cheek the belted 
hunter blew 
His wreathed bugle-horn. 

One seem'd all dark and red — a tract 
of sand, 
And some one pacing there alone, 
Who paced for ever in a glimmering 
land, 
Lit with a low large moon. 

One show'd an iron coast and angry 
waves. 
You seem'd to hear them climb and 
fall 70 

And roar rock- thwarted under bellow- 
ing caves, 
Beneath the windy wall. 

And one, a full-fed river winding slow 

By herds upon an endless plain, 
The ragged rims of thunder brooding 
low, 
With shadow-streaks of rain. . 

And one, the reapers at their sultry 

toil. 

In front they bound the sheaves. 

Behind 

Were realms of upland, prodigal in oil, 

And hoary to the wind. 80 

And one a foreground black with 
stones and slags ; 
Beyond, aline of heights ; and higher 
All barr'd with long white cloud the 
scornful crags ; 
And highest, snow and fire. 

And one, an English home — gray twi- 
light pour'd 



5 6 THE LADY OF SHALOTT AND OTHER POEMS 




' In a clear- wall'd city on the sea, 
Near gilded organ-pipes, her hair 
Wound with white roses, slept Saint Cecily ' 



On dewy pastures, dewy trees, 
Softer than sleep — all things in order 
stored, 
A haunt of ancient Peace. 

Nor these alone, but every landscape 
fair, 
As fit for every mood of mind, 90 
Or gay, or grave, or sweet, or stern, 
was there, 
Not less than truth design'd. 



Or the maid-mother by a crucifix, 

In tracts of pasture sunny-warm, 
Beneath branch -work of costly sard- 
onyx 
Sat smiling, babe in arm. 



Or in a clear -wall'd city on the 
sea, 
Near gilded organ-pipes, her hair 
Wound with white roses, slept Saint 
Cecily ; 
An angel look'd at her. 100 

Or thronging all one porch of Paradise 

A group of Houris bow'd to see 
The dying Islamite, with hands and 
eyes 
That said, We wait for thee. 

Or mythic Uther's deeply - wounded 
son 
In some fair space of sloping greens 
Lay, dozing in the vale of Aval on, 
And watch'd by weeping queens. 



THE PALACE OF ART 



57 



Or hollowing one hand against his 
ear, 
To list a foot-fall, ere he saw no 
The wood-nymph, stay'd the Ausonian 
king to hear 
Of wisdom and of law. 

Or over hills with peaky tops en- 
grail' d, 
And many a tract of palm and 
rice, 
The throne of Indian Cama slowly 
sail'd 
A summer fann'd with spice. 

Or sweet Europa's mantle blew un- 
clasp'd, 
From off her shoulder backward 
borne ; 
From one hand droop' d a crocus ; one 
hand grasp' d 
The mild bull's golden horn. 120 

Or else flush'd Ganymede, his rosy 
thigh 



Half-buried in the eagle's down, 
Sole as a flying star shot thro' the 
sky 
Above the pillar' d town. 

Nor these alone ; but every legend 
fair 
Which the supreme Caucasian mind 
Carved out of Nature for itself was 
there, 
Not less than life design'd. 



Then in the towers I placed great bells 
that swung, 
Moved of themselves, with silver 
sound ; 130 

And with choice paintings of wise men 
I hung 
The royal dais round. 

For there was Milton like a seraph 
strong, 
Beside him Shakespeare bland and 
mild ; 




'Mythic Uther's deeply-wounded son' 



5 8 THE LADY OF SHALOTT AND OTHER POEMS 



And there the world - worn Dante 
grasp'd his song, 
And somewhat grimly smiled. 

And there the Ionian father of the rest ; 

A million wrinkles carved his skin ; 

A hundred winters snow'd upon his 

breast, 139 

From cheek and throat and chin. 

Above, the fair hall-ceiling stately- set 

Many an arch high up did lift, 
And angels rising and descending met 
With interchange of gift. 

Below was all mosaic choicely plann'd 

With cycles of the human tale 
Of this wide world, the times of every 
land 
So wrought they will not fail. 

The' people here, a beast of burden 

slow, 

Toil'd onward, prick'd with goads 

and stings ; 150 

Here play'd, a tiger, rolling to and fro 

The heads and crowns of kings ; 

Here rose, an athlete, strong to break 
or bind 
All force in bonds that might endure, 
And here once more like some sick 
man declined, 
And trusted any cure. 

But over these she trod ; and those 
great bells 
Began to chime. She took her 
throne ; 
She sat betwixt the shining oriels, 
To sing her songs alone. 160 

And thro' the topmost oriels' colored 

flame 

Two godlike faces gazed below ; 

Plato the wise, and large-brow' d 

Verulam, 

The first of those who know. 

And all those names that in their 
motion were 
Full- welling fountain-heads of 
change, 
Betwixt the slender shafts were bla- 
zon' d fair 
In diverse raiment strange ; 



Thro' which the lights, rose, amber, 
emerald, blue, 
Flush'd in her temples and her 
eyes, 170 

And from her lips, as morn from Mem- 
non, drew 
Rivers of melodies. 

No nightingale delighteth to pro- 
long 
Her low preamble all alone, 
More than my soul to hear her echo'd 
song 
Throb thro' the ribbed stone ; 

Singing and murmuring in her feast- 
f ul mirth, 
Joying to feel herself alive, 
Lord over Nature, lord of the visible 
earth, 
Lord of the senses five ; 180 

Communing with herself : ' All these 
are mine, 
And let the world have peace or 
wars, 
'T is one to me.' She — when young 
night divine 
Crown' d dying day with stars, 

Making sweet close of his delicious 
toils — 
Lit light in wreaths and anadems, 
And pure quintessences of precious 
oils 
In hollow'd moons of gems, 

To mimic heaven ; and clapt her 
hands and cried, 
1 1 marvel if my still delight 190 

In this great house so royal-rich and 
wide 
Be flatter'd to the height. 

' O all things fair to sate my various 
eyes ! 

shapes and hues that please me 

well ! 
O silent faces of the Great and Wise, 
My Gods, with whom I dwell ! 

' O Godlike isolation which art mine, 

1 can but count thee perfect gain, 
What time I watch the darkening 

droves of swine 
That range on yonder plain. 200 



THE PALACE OF ART 



59 



' In filthy sloughs they roll a prurient 
skin, 
They graze and wallow, breed and 
sleep ; 
And oft some brainless devil enters 
in, 
And drives them to the deep.' 

Then of the moral instinct would she 
prate 
And of the rising from the dead, 
As hers by right of full-accomplish' d 
Fate ; 
And at the last she said : 

* I take possession of man's mind and 

deed. 

I care not what the sects may 

brawl. 210 

I sit as God holding no form of creed, 

But contemplating all.' 



Full oft the riddle of the painful 
earth 
Flash'd thro' her as she sat alone, 
Yet not the less held she her solemn 
mirth, 
And intellectual throne. 

And so she throve and prosper' d ; so 
three years 
She prosper'd ; on the fourth she 
fell, 
Like Herod, when the shout was in 
his ears, 
Struck thro' with pangs of hell. 220 

Lest she should fail and perish utterly, 

God, before whom ever lie bare 
The abysmal deeps of personality, 
Plagued her with sore despair. 

•When she would think, where'er she 

turn'd her sight 

The airy hand confusion wrought, 

"Wrote, 'Mene, mene,' and divided quite 

The kingdom of her thought. 

Deep dread and loathing of her soli- 
tude 
Fell on her, from which mood was 
born 230 

Scorn of herself ; again, from out that 
mood 
Laughter at her self-scorn. 



* What ! is not this my place of 
strength,' she said, 
' My spacious mansion built for me, 
Whereof the strong foundation-stones 
were laid 
Since my first memory ? ' 

But in dark corners of her palace stood 

Uncertain shapes ; and unawares 
On white-eyed phantasms weeping 
tears of blood, 
And horrible nightmares, 240 

And hollow shades enclosing hearts of 
flame, 
And, with dim fretted foreheads all, 
On corpses three-months-old at noon 
she came, 
That stood against the wall. 

A spot of dull stagnation, without 
light 
Or power of movement, seem'd my 
soul, 
Mid onward-sloping motions infinite 
Making for one sure goal ; 

A still salt pool, lock'd in with bars 
of sand, 
Left on the shore, that hears all 
night 250 

The plunging seas draw backward 
from the land 
Their moon-led waters white ; 

A star that with the choral starry 
dance 
Join'd not, but stood, and standing 
saw 
The hollow orb of moving Circum- 
stance 
Roll'd round by one fix'd law. 

Back on herself her serpent pride had 
cuiTd. 
' No voice,' she shriek'd in that lone 
hall, 
' No voice breaks thro' the stillness of 
this world ; 
One deep, deep silence all ! ' 260 

She, mouldering with the dull earth's 
mouldering sod, 
Inwrapt tenfold in slothful shame, 
Lay there exiled from eternal God, 
Lost to her place and name ; 



6o THE LADY OF SHALOTT AND OTHER POEMS 



And death and life she hated equally, 

And nothing saw, for her despair, 
But dreadful time, dreadful eternity, 
No comfort anywhere ; 

Remaining utterly confused with 
fears, 
And ever worse with growing 
time, 270 

And ever unrelieved by dismal tears, 
And all alone in crime. 

Shut up as in a crumbling tomb, girt 
round 
With blackness as a solid wall, 
Far off she seem'd to hear the dully 
sound 
Of human footsteps fall : 

As in strange lands a traveller walk- 
ing slow, 
In doubt and great perplexity, 
A little before moonrise hears the low 
Moan of an unknown sea ; 280 

And knows not if it be thunder, or a 
sound 
Of rocks thrown down, or one deep 
cry 
Of great wild beasts ; then thinketh, 
' I have found 
A new land, but I die.' 

She howl'd aloud, ' I am on fire within. 

There comes no murmur of reply. 
What is it that will take away my sin, 
And save me lest I die ? ' 

So when four years were wholly 
finished, 
She threw her royal robes away. 290 
'Make me a cottage in the vale/ she 
said, 
1 Where I may mourn and pray. 

'Yet pull not down my palace towers, 
that are 
So lightly, beautifully built ; 
Perchance I may return with others 
there 
When I have purged my guilt. ' 

LADY CLARA VERE DE VERE 

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 
Of me you shall not win renown - 



You thought to break a country heart 
For pastime, ere you went to town. 

At me you smiled, but unbeguiled 
I saw the snare, and I retired ; 

The daughter of a hundred earls, 
You are not one to be desired. 

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 

I know you proud to bear your name, 
Your pride is yet no mate for mine, 

Too proud to care from whence I 
came. 
Nor would I break for your sweet sake 

A heart that dotes on truer charms. 
A simple maiden in her flower 

Is worth a hundred coats-of-arms. 

Lady Clara Yere de Vere, 

Some meeker pupil you must find, 
For, were you queen of all that is, 

I could not stoop to such a mind. 
You sought to prove how I could love, 

And my disdain is my reply. 
The lion on your old stone gates 

Is not more cold to you than I. 

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 

You put strange memories in my 
head. 
Not thrice your branching limes have 
blown 

Since I beheld young Laurence dead. 
O, your sweet eyes, your low replies ! 

A great enchantress you may be ; 
But there was that across his throat 

Which you had hardly cared to see. 

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 

When thus he met his mother's view, 
She had the passions of her kind, 

She spake some certain truths of you. 
Indeed I heard one bitter word 

That scarce is fit for you to hear ; 
Her manners had not that repose 

Which stamps the caste of Vere de 
Vere. 

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 

There stands a spectre in your hall ; 
The guilt of blood is at your door ; 

You changed a wholesome heart to 
gall. 
You held your course without remorse, 

To make him trust his modest worth, 
And, last, you fix'd a vacant stare, 

And slew him with your noble birth. 



THE MAY QUEEN 



61 



Trust me, Clara Vere de Vere, 
From yon blue heavens above us 
bent 
The gardener Adam and his wife 
Smile at the claims of long de- 
scent. 
Howe'er it be, it seems to me, 
'T is only noble to be good. 
Kind hearts are more than coronets, 
And simple faith than Norman 
blood. 

I know you, Clara Yere de Yere, 
You pine among your halls and 
towers ; 
The languid light of your proud 
eyes 
Is wearied of the rolling hours. 
In glowing health, with boundless 
wealth, 
But sickening of a vague disease, 
You know so ill to deal with time, 
You needs must play such pranks 
as these. 

Clara, Clara Yere de Yere, 

If time be heavy on your hands, 
Are there no beggars at your gate, 

Nor any poor about your lands ? 
O, teach the orphan-boy to read, 

Or teach the orphan-girl to sew ; 
Pray Heaven for a human heart, 

And let the foolish yeoman go. 



THE MAY QUEEN 

You must wake and call me early, 
call me early, mother dear ; 

To-morrow 'ill be the happiest time of 
all the glad Ne w-y ear ; 

Of all the glad New-year, mother, the 
maddest merriest day, 

For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mo- 
ther, I'm to be Queen o' the 
May. 

There 's many a black, black eye, they 
say, but none so bright as mine ; 

There's Margaret and Mary, there's 
Kate and Caroline ; 

But none so fair as little Alice in all 
the land they say. 

So I 'm to be Queen o' the May, mo- 
ther, I'm to be Queen o' the 
May. 



I sleep so sound all night, mother, 

that I shall never wake, 
If you do not call me loud when the 

day begins to break ; 10 

But I must gather knots of flowers, 

and buds and garlands gay, 
For I'mtobeQueeno'the May, mother, 

I'm to be Queen o' the May. 

As I came up the valley whom think 
ye should I see 

But Robin leaning on the bridge be- 
neath the hazel-tree ? 

He thought of that sharp look, mother, 
I gave him yesterday, 

But I 'm to be Queen o' the May, mo- 
ther, I 'm to be Queen o' the 
May. 

He thought I was a ghost, mother, 
for I was all in white, 

And I ran by him without speaking, 
like a flash of light. 

They call me cruel-hearted, but I care 
not what they say, 

For I 'm to be Queen o' the May, mo- 
ther, I'm to be Queen o' the 
May. 20 

They say he 's dying all for love, but 

that can never be ; 
They say his heart is breaking, mother 

— what is that to me ? 
There's many a bolder lad 'ill woo me 

any summer day, 
And I'm to be Queen o' the May, 

mother, I 'm to be Queen o' the 

May. 

Little Effle shall go with me to-morrow 

to the green, 
And you'll be there, too, mother, to 

see me made the Queen ; 
For the shepherd lads on every side 

'ill come from far away, 
And I'm to be Queen o' the May, 

mother, I 'm to be Queen o' the 

May. 

The honeysuckle round the porch has 

woven its wavy bowers, 
And by the meadow-trenches blow the 

faint sweet cuckoo-flowers ; 30 
And the wild marsh-marigold shines 

like fire in swamps and hollows 

gray, 



62 THE LADY OF SHALOTT AND OTHER POEMS 







' It is the last New-year that I shall ever see ' 



And I 'm to be Queen o' the May, 
mother, I 'm to be Queen o' the 
May. 

The night-winds come and go, mo- 
ther, upon the meadow-grass, 

And the happy stars above them seem 
to brighten as they pass ; 

There will not be a drop of rain the 
whole of the livelong day, 

And I 'm to be Queen o' the May, 
mother, I 'm to be Queen o' the 
May. 

All the valley, mother, 'ill be fresh 

and green and still, 
And the cowslip and the crowfoot are 

over all the hill, 
And the rivulet in the flowery dale 'ill 

merrily glance and play, 



For I 'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, 
I 'm to be Queen o' the May. 40 

So you must wake and call me early, 

call me early, mother dear, 
To-morrow 'ill be the happiest time 

of all the glad New-year ; 
To-morrow 'ill be of all the year the 

maddest merriest day, 
For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, 

I 'm to be Queen o' the May. 

NEW-YEAR'S EVE 

If you 're waking call me early, call 
me early, mother dear, 

For I would see the sun rise upon the 
glad New-year. 

It is the last New-year that I shall 
ever see, 



THE MAY QUEEN 



63 



Then you may lay me low i' the 
mould and think no more of 
me. 

To-night I saw the sun set ; he set and 
left behind 

The good old year, the dear old 
time, and all my peace of 
mind ; 

And the New-year's coming up, mo- 
ther, but I shall never see 

The blossom on the blackthorn, the 
leaf upon the tree. 

Last May we made a crown of flowers ; 

we had a merry day ; 
Beneath the hawthorn on the green 

they made me Queen of May ; 
And we danced about the may-pole 

and in the hazel copse, n 

Till Charles's Wain came out above 

the tall white chimney-tops. 

There 's not a flower on all the hills ; 

the frost is on the pane. 
I only wish to live till the snowdrops 

come again ; 
I wish the snow would melt and the 

sun come out on high ; 
I long to see a flower so before the day 

I die. 

The building rook '11 caw from the 

windy tall elm-tree, 
And the tufted plover pipe along the 

fallow lea, 
And the swallow 'ill come back again 

with summer o'er the wave, 
But I shall lie alone, mother, within 

the mouldering grave. 20 

Upon the chancel-casement, and upon 
that grave of mine, 

In the early early morning the sum- 
mer sun 'ill shine, 

Before the red cock crows from the 
farm upon the hill, 

When you are warm-asleep, mother, 
and all the world is still. 

When the flowers come again, mother, 
beneath the waning light 

You '11 never see me more in the long 
gray fields at night ; 

When from the dry dark wold the sum- 
mer airs blow cool 



On the oat-grass and the sword-grass, 
and the bulrush in the pool. 

You'll bury me, my mother, just be- 
neath the hawthorn shade, 

And you'll come sometimes and see 
me where I am lowly laid. 30 

I shall not forget you, mother, I shall 
hear you when you pass, 

With your feet above my head in the 
long and pleasant grass. 

I have been wild and wayward, but 

you '11 forgive me now ; 
You '11 kiss me, my own mother, and 

forgive me ere I go ; 
Nay, Hay, you must not weep, nor let 

your grief be wild ; 
You should not fret for me, mother, 

you have another child. 

If I can I '11 come again, mother, from 

out my resting-place ; 
Tho' you '11 not see me, mother, I shall 

look upon your face ; 
Tho' I cannot speak a word, I shall 

harken what you say, 
And be often, often with you when 

you think I'm far away. 40 

Good-night, good-night, when I have 

said good-night for evermore, 
And you see me carried out from the 

threshold of the door, 
Don't let Effie come to see me till my 

grave be growing green. 
She '11 be a better child to you than 

ever I have been. 

She'll find my garden-tools upon the 

1 granary floor. 
Let her take 'em, they are hers ; I shall 

never garden more ; 
But tell her, when I 'm gone, to train 

the rosebush that I set 
About the parlor-window and the box 

of mignonette. 

Good-night, sweet mother ; call me be- 
fore the day is born. 

All night I lie awake, but I fall asleep 
at morn ; 50 

But I would see the sun rise upon the 
glad New-year, 

So, if you're waking, call me, call me 
early, mother dear. 



64 THE LADY OF SHALOTT AND OTHER POEMS 



CONCLUSION 

I thought to pass away before, and 
yet alive I am ; 

And in the fields all round I hear the 
bleating of the lamb. 

How sadly, I remember, rose the morn- 
ing of the year ! 

To die before the snowdrop came, and 
now the violet 's here. 

O, sweet is the new violet, that comes 

beneath the skies, 
And sweeter is the young lamb's voice 

to me that cannot rise, 
And sweet is all the land about, and 

all the flowers that blow, 
And sweeter far is death than life to 

me that long to go. 

It seem'd so hard at first, mother, to 

leave the blessed sun, 
And now it seems as hard to stay, and 

yet His will be done ! 10 

But still I think it can't be long before 

I find release ; 
And that good man, the clergyman, 

has told me words of peace. 

O, blessings on his kindly voice and 

on his silver hair ! 
And blessings on his whole life long, 

until he meet me there ! 
O, blessings on his kindly heart and on 

his silver head ! 
A thousand times I blest him, as he 

knelt beside my bed. 

He taught me all the mercy, for he 

show'd me all the sin. 
Now, tho' my lamp was lighted late, 

there 's One will let me in ; 
Nor would I now be well, mother, 

again, if that could be, 
For my desire is but to pass to Him 

that died for me. 20 

I did not hear the dog howl, mother, 

or the death-watch beat, 
There came a sweeter token when the 

night and morning meet ; 
But sit beside my bed, mother, and put 

your hand in mine, 
And Erne on the other side, and I will 

tell the sign. 



All in the wild March-morning I heard 

the angels call ; 
It was when the moon was setting, and 

the dark was over all ; 
The trees began to whisper, and the 

wind began to roll, 
And in the wild March-morning I heard 

them call my soul. 

For lying broad awake I thought of 

you and Effie dear ; 
I saw you sitting in the house, and I 

no longer here ; 3 o 

With all my strength I pray'd for both, 

and so I felt resign'd, 
xlnd up the valley came a swell of music 

on the wind. 

I thought that it was fancy, and I 

listen'd in my bed, 
And then did something speak to me — 

I know not what was said ; 
For great delight and shuddering took 

hold of all my mind, 
And up the valley came again the 

music on the wind. 

But you were sleeping ; and I said, ' It 's 
not for them, it 's mine.' 

And if it come three times, I thought, 
I take it for a sign. 

And once again it came, and close be- 
side the window-bars, 

Then seem'd to go right up to heaven 
and die among the stars. 40 

So now I think my time is near. I 

trust it is. I know 
The blessed music went that way my 

soul will have to go. 
And for myself, indeed, I care not if I 

go to-day ; 
But, Effie, you must comfort her when 

I am past away. 

And say to Robin a kind word, and 

tell him not to fret ; 
There 's many a worthier than I, would 

make him happy yet. 
If I had lived — I cannot tell — I might 

have been his wife ; 
But all these things have ceased to be, 

with my desire of life. 

0, look ! the sun begins to rise, the 
heavens are in a glow ; 



THE LOTOS-EATERS 



65 



He shines upon a hundred fields, and 
all of them I know. 50 

And there I move no longer now, and 
there his light may shine — 

Wild flowers in the valley for other 
hands than mine. 

O, sweet and strange it seems to me, 

that ere this day is done 
The voice, that now is speaking, may 

be beyond the sun — 
For ever and for ever with those just 

souls and true — 
And what is life, that we should moan ? 

why make we such ado ? 

For ever and for ever, all in a blessed 

home — 
And there to wait a little while till 

you and Effie come — 



To lie within the light of God, as I lie 

upon your breast — 
And the wicked cease from troubling, 

and the weary are at rest. 60 



THE LOTOS-EATERS 

' Courage ! ' he said, and pointed 

toward the land, 
'This mounting wave will roll us 

shoreward soon7 
In the afternoon they came unto a land 
In which it seemed always afternoon. 
All round the coast the languid air did 

swoon, 
Breathing like one that hath a weary 

dream. 
Full-faced above the valley stood the 

moon ; 






. . 




* I thought that it was fancy, and I listen'd in my bed ' 



66 THE LADY OF SHALOTT AND OTHER POEMS 



And, like a downward smoke, the 

slender stream 
Along the cliff to fall and pause and 

fall did seem. 

A land of streams ! some, like a down- 
ward smoke, 10 

Slow-dropping veils of thinnest lawn, 
did go ; 

And some thro' wavering lights and 
shadows broke, 

Rolling a slumbrous sheet of foam be- 
low. 

They saw the gleaming river seaward 
flow 

From the inner land ; far off, three 
mountain-tops, 

Three silent pinnacles of aged snow, 

Stood sunset-flush' d ; and, dew'd with 
showery drops, 

Up-clomb the shadowy pine above the 
woven copse. 

The charmed sunset linger'd low 
adown 

In the red West ; thro' mountain clefts 
the dale 20 

Was seen far inland, and the yellow 
down 

Border'd with palm, and many a wind- 
ing vale 

And meadow, set with slender galin- 
gale ; 

A land where all things always seem'd 
the same ! 

And round about the keel with faces 
pale, 

Dark faces pale against that rosy flame, 

The mild-eyed melancholy Lotos-eat- 
ers came. 

Branches they bore of that enchanted 

stem, 
Laden with flower and fruit, whereof 

they gave 
To each, but whoso did receive of them 
And taste, to him the gushing of the 

wave 31 

Far far away did seem to mourn and 

rave 
On alien shores ; and if his fellow 

spake, 
His voice was thin, as voices from the 

grave ; 
And deep-asleep he seem'd, yet all 

awake, 



And music in his ears his beating heart 
did make. 

They sat them down upon the yellow 

sand, 
Between the sun and moon upon the 

shore ; 
And sweet it was to dream of Father- 
land, 
Of child, and wife, and slave ; but 

evermore 40 

Most weary seem'd the sea, weary the 

oar, 
Weary the wandering fields of barren 

foam. 
Then some one said, ' We will return 

no more ; ' 
And all at once they sang, ' Our island 

home 
Is far beyond the wave ; we will no 

longer roam.' 



CHORIC SONG 



There is sweet music here that softer 

falls 
Than petals from blown roses on the 

grass, 
Or night-dews on still waters between 

walls 
Of shadowy granite, in a gleaming 

pass; 
Music that gentlier on the spirit lies, 
Ttran tired eyelids upon tired eyes ; 
mtteic that brings sweet sleep down 

from the blissful skies. 
Here are cool mosses deep, 
And thro' the moss the ivies creep, 
And in the stream the long-leaved 

flowers weep, 10 

And from the craggy ledge the poppy 

hangs in sleep. 

11 

Why are we weigh'd upon with heavi- 
ness, 

And utterly consumed with sharp dis- 
tress, 

While all things else have rest from 
weariness ? 

All things have rest : why should we 
toil alone, 

We only toil, who are the first of things, 

And make perpetual moan, 



CHORIC SONG 



67 




' O, rest ye, brother mariners, we will not wander more ' 



Still from one sorrow to another 

thrown ; 
Nor ever fold our wings, 
And cease from wanderings, 20 

Nor steep our brows in slumber's holy 

balm; 
Nor harken what the inner spirit sings, 
' There is no joy but calm ! ' — 
Why should we only toil, the roof and 

crown of things ? 

in 
Lo ! in the middle of the wood, 
The folded leaf is woo'd from out the 
bud 



With winds upon the branch, and there 
Grows green and broad, and takes no 

care, 
Sun-steep' d at noon, and in the moon 
Nightly dew-fed ; and turning yellow 
Falls, and floats adown the air. 31 

Lo ! sweeten'd with the summer light, 
The full- juiced apple, waxing over- 
mellow, 
Drops in a silent autumn night. 
All its allotted length of days 
The flower ripens in its place, 
Ripens and fades, and falls, and hath 

no toil, 
Fast-rooted in the fruitful soil. 






68 THE LADY OF SHALOTT AND OTHER POEMS 



IV 

Hateful is the dark-blue sky, 
Vaulted o'er the dark-blue sea. 40 

Death is the end of life ; ah, why- 
Should life all labor be ? 
Let us alone. Time driveth onward 

fast, 
And in a little while our lips are 

dumb. 
Let us alone. What is it that will 

last? 
All things are taken from us, and be- 
come 
Portions and parcels of the dreadful 

past. 
Let us alone. What pleasure can we 

have 
To war with evil? Is there any 

peace 
In ever climbing up the climbing 

wave ? 50 

All things have rest, and ripen toward 

the grave 
In silence — ripen, fall, and cease: 
Give us long rest or death, dark death, 

or dreamful ease. 



How sweet it were, hearing the down- 
ward stream, 
With half-shut eyes ever to seem 
Falling asleep in a half -dream ! 
To dream and dream, like yonder 

amber light, 
Which will not leave the myrrh-bush 

on the height ; 
To hear each other's whisper'd speech ; 
Eating the Lotos day by day, A 60 
To watch the crisping ripples' on the 

beach, 
And tender curving lines of creamy 

spray ; 
To lend our hearts and spirits wholly 
To the influence of mild-minded mel- 
ancholy ; 
To muse and brood and live again in 

memory, 
With those old faces of our infancy 
Heap'd over with a mound of grass, 
Two handfuls of white dust, shut in 
an urn of brass ! 



Dear is the memory of our wedded 
lives, 



And dear the last embraces of our 

wives 70 

And their warm tears; but all hath 

suffer'd change ; 
For surely now our household hearths 

are cold, 
Our sons inherit us, our looks are 

strange, 
And we should come like ghosts to 

trouble joy. 
Or else the island princes over-bold 
Have eat our substance, and the min- 
strel sings 
Before them of the ten years' war in 

Troy, 
And our great deeds, as half-forgotten 

things. 
Is there confusion in the little isle ? 
Let what is broken so remain. 80 

The Gods are hard to reconcile ; 
'T is hard to settle order once again. 
There is confusion worse than death, 
Trouble on trouble, pain on pain, 
Long labor unto aged breath, 
Sore task to hearts worn out by many 

wars 
And eyes grown dim with gazing on 

the pilot-stars. 



But, propt on beds of amaranth and 

moly, 
How sweet — while warm airs lull us, 

blowing lowly — 
With half -drop t eyelid still, 90 

Beneath a heaven dark and holy, 
To watch the long bright river draw- 
ing slowly 
His waters from the purple hill — 
To hear the dewy echoes calling 
From cave to cave thro' the thick- 
twined vine — 
To watch the emerald-col or'd water 

falling 
Thro' many a woven acanthus-wreath 

divine ! 
Only to hear and see the far-off spar- 
kling brine, 
Only to hear were sweet, stretch'd out 
beneath the pine. 



The Lotos blooms below the barren 
peak, 100 

The Lotos blows by every winding 
creek ; 



A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 



69 



All day the wind breathes low with 

mellower tone ; 
Thro' every hollow cave and alley 

lone 
Bound and round the spicy downs the 

yellow Lotos-dust is blown. 
We have had enough of action, and of 

motion we, 
Roll'd to starboard, roll'd to larboard, 

when the surge was seething 

free, 
Where the wallowing monster spouted 

his foam-fountains in the sea. 
Let us swear an oath, and keep it with 

an equal mind, 
In the hollow Lotos-land to live and 

lie reclined 
On the hills like Gods together, care- 
less of mankind. no 
For they lie beside their nectar, and 

the bolts are hurl'd 
Far below them in the valleys, and 

the clouds are lightly curl'd 
Round their golden houses, girdled 

with the gleaming world ; 
Where they smile in secret, looking 

over wasted lands, 
Blight and famine, plague and earth- 
quake, roaring deeps and fiery 

sands, 
Clanging fights, and flaming towns, 

and sinking ships, and praying 

hands. 
But they smile, they find a music cen- 
tred in a doleful song 
Steaming up, a lamentation and an 

ancient tale of wrong, 
Like a tale of little meaning tho' the 

words are strong ; 
Chanted from an ill-used race of men 

that cleave the soil, 120 

Sow the seed, and reap the harvest 

with enduring toil, 
Storing yearly little dues of wheat, 

and wine and oil ; 
Till they perish and they suffer — 

some, 'tis whisper'd — down in 

hell 
Suffer endless anguish, others in Ely- 

sian valleys dwell, 
Resting weary limbs at last on beds of 

asphodel. 
Surely, surely, slumber is more sweet 

than toil, the shore 
Than labor in the deep mid-ocean, 

wind and wave and oar ; 



O, rest ye, brother mariners, we will 
not wander more. 



A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 

I read, before my eyelids dropt their 
shade, 
' The Legend of Good Women,' long 
ago 
Sung by the morning star of song, 
who made 
His music heard below ; 

Dan Chaucer, the first warbler, whose 
sweet breath 
Preluded those melodious bursts that 
fill 
The spacious times of great Eliza- 
beth 
With sounds that echo still. 

And, for a while, the knowledge of 
his art 
Held me above the subject, as strong 
gales 10 

Hold swollen clouds from raining, tho' 
my heart, 
Brimful of those wild tales, 

Charged both mine eyes with tears. 

In every land 

I saw, wherever light illumineth, 

Beauty and anguish walking hand in 

hand 

The downward slope to death. 

Those far-renowned brides of ancient 
song 
Peopled the hollow dark, like burn- 
ing stars, 
And I heard sounds of insult, shame, 
and wrong, 
And trumpets blown for wars ; 20 

And clattering flints batter'd with 
clanging hoofs ; 
And I saw crowds in column'd sanc- 
tuaries, 
And forms that pass'd at windows and 
on roofs 
Of marble palaces ; 

Corpses across the threshold, heroes 
tall 



7 o THE LADY OF SHALOTT AND OTHER POEMS 



Dislodging pinnacle and parapet 
Upon the tortoise creeping to the 
wall, 
Lances in ambush set ; 

And high shrine-doors burst thro' with 
heated blasts 
That run before the fluttering 
tongues of fire ; 30 

White surf wind-scatter'd over sails 
and masts, 
And ever climbing higher ; 

Squadrons and squares of men in bra- 
zen plates, 
Scaffolds, still sheets of water, 
divers woes, 
Ranges of glimmering vaults with iron 
grates, 
And hush'd seraglios. 

So shape chased shape as swift as, 
when to land 
Bluster the winds and tides the self- 
same way, 
Crisp foam-flakes scud along the level 
sand, 
Torn from th* fringe of spray. 40 

I started once, or seem'd to start in 
pain, 
Resolved on noble things, and strove 
to speak. 
As when a great thought strikes along 
the brain 
And flushes all the cheek. 

And once my arm was lifted to hew 
down 
A cavalier from off his saddle-bow, 
That bore a lady from a leaguer'd 
town ; 
And then, I know not how, 

All those sharp fancies, by down-laps- 
ing thought 
Stream'd onward, lost their edges, 
and did creep 50 

Roll'd on each other, rounded, 
smooth'd, and brought 
Into the gulfs of sleep. 

At last methought that I had wander'd 
far 
In an old wood ; f resh-wash'd in 
coolest dew 



The maiden splendors of the morning 
star 
Shook in the steadfast blue. 

Enormous elm-tree boles did stoop and 
lean 
Upon the dusky brushwood under- 
neath 
Their broad curved branches, fledged 
with clearest green, 
New from its silken sheath. 60 

The dim red Morn had died, her jour- 
ney done, 
And with dead lips smiled at the 
twilight plain, 
Half -fallen across the threshold of the 
sun, 
Never to rise again. 

There was no motion in the dumb dead 
air, 
Not any song of bird or sound of 
rill; 
Gross darkness of the inner sepul- 
chre 
Is not so deadly still 

As that wide forest. Growths of jas- 
mine turn'd 
Their humid arms festooning tree to 
tree, 70 

And at the root thro' lush green grasses 
burn'd 
The red anemone. 

I knew the flowers, I knew the leaves, 
I knew 
The tearful glimmer of the languid 
dawn 
On those long, rank, dark wood-walks 
drench'd in dew, 
Leading from lawn to lawn. 

The smell of violets, hidden in the 
green, 
Pour'd back into my empty soul and 
frame 
The times when I remember to have 
been 
Joyful and free from blame. 80 

And from within me a clear under- 
tone 
Thrill'd thro' mine ears in that un- 
blissful clime, 



A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 



7i 



1 Pass freely thro' ; the wood is all 
thine own 
Until the end of time.' 

At length I saw a lady within call, 
Stiller than chisell'd marble, stand- 
ing there ; 
A daughter of the gods, divinely tall, 
And most divinely fair. 

Her loveliness with shame and with 
surprise 
Froze my swift speech; she turn- 
ing on my face 90 
The star-like sorrows of immortal eyes, 
Spoke slowly in her place : 

1 I had great beauty ; ask thou not my 
name : 



No one can be more wise than destiny. 
Many drew swords and died. Wher- 
e'er I came 
I brought calamity. ' 

' No marvel, sovereign lady : in fair field 
Myself for such a face had boldly 
died/ 
I answer' d free ; and turning I ap- 
peals 
To one that stood beside. 100 

But she, with sick and scornful looks 
averse, 
To her full height her stately stature 
draws ; 
' My youth,' she said, * was blasted 
with a curse : 
This woman was the cause. 



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' Dislodging pinnacle and parapet ' 



72 THE LADY OF SHALOTT AND OTHER POEMS 



1 1 was cut off from hope in that sad 


'The ever-shifting currents of the 


place 


blood 


Which men call'd Aulis in those iron 


According to my humor ebb and 


years : 


flow. 


My father held his hand upon his 


I have no men to govern in this wood : 


face; 


That makes my only woe. 


I, blinded with my tears, 






' Nay — yet it chafes me that I could 


1 Still strove to speak : my voice was 


not bend 


thick with sighs 


One will ; nor tame and tutor with 


As in a dream. Dimly I could de- 


mine eye 


scry no 


That dull cold-blooded Caesar. Pry- 


The stern black-bearded kings with 


thee, friend, 


wolfish eyes, 


Where is Mark Antony ? 140 


Waiting to see me die. 






'The man, my lover, with whom I 


' The high masts flicker'd as they lay 


rode sublime 


afloat ; 


On Fortune's neck ; we sat as God 


The crowds, the temples, waver'd, 


by God : 


and the shore ; 


The Nilus would have risen before 


The bright death quiver'd at the vic- 


his time 


tim's throat — 


And flooded at our nod. 


Touch'd — and I knew no more.' 






' We drank the Libyan Sun to sleep, 


Whereto the other with a downward 


and lit 


brow : 


Lamps which out-burn'd Canopus. 


'I would the white cold heavy- 


0, my life 


plunging foam, 


In Egypt ! X), the dalliance and the wit, 


Whirl' d by the wind, had roll'd me 


The flattery and the strife, 


deep below, 




Then when I left my home/ 120 


' And the wild kiss, when fresh from 




war's alarms, 


Her slow full words sank thro' the 


My Hercules, my Roman Antony, 150 


silence drear, 


My mailed Bacchus leapt into my 


As thunder-drops fall on a sleeping 


arms, 


sea : 


Contented there to die ! 


Sudden I heard a voice that cried, 




1 Come here, 


1 And there he died : and when I heard 


That I may look on thee.' 


my name 




Sigh'd forth with life I would not 


I turning saw, throned on a flowery 


brook my fear 


rise, 


Of the other ; with a worm I balk'd 


One sitting on a crimson scarf un- 


his fame. 


roll'd ; 


What else was left ? look here ! ' — 


A queen, with swarthy cheeks and 




bold black eyes, 


With that she tore her robe apart, and 


Brow-bound with burning gold. 


half 




The polish'd argent of her breast to 


She, flashing forth a haughty smile, 


sight 


began : 


Laid bare. Thereto she pointed with 


' I govern'd men by change, and so 


a laugh, 


I sway'd 130 


Showing the aspick's bite. — 160 


All moods. 'Tis long since I have 




seen a man. 


' I died a Queen. The Roman soldier 


Once, like the moon, I made 


found 



A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 



73 




' Kneeling, with one arm about her king, 
Drew forth the poison with her balmy breath ' 



Me lying dead, my crown about my 
brows, 
A name for ever ! — lying robed and 
crown' d, 
Worthy a Roman spouse.' 

Her warbling voice, a lyre of widest 
range 
Struck by all passion, did fall down 
and glance 
From tone to tone, and glided thro' all 
change 
Of liveliest utterance. 

When she made pause I knew not for 
delight ; 
Because with sudden motion from 
the ground 170 

She raised her piercing orbs, and fill'd 
with light 
The interval of sound. 

Still with their fires Love tipt his 
keenest darts ; 



As once they drew into two burn- 
ing rings 
All beams of Love, melting the mighty 
hearts 
Of captains and of kings. 

Slowly my sense undazzled. Then I 
heard 
A noise of some one coming thro' 
the lawn, 
And singing clearer than the crested 
bird 
That claps his wings at dawn : 180 

1 The torrent brooks of hallow'd Israel 
From craggy hollows pouring, late 
and soon, 
Sound all night long, in falling thro' 
the dell, 
Far-heard beneath the moon. 

1 The balmy moon of blessed Israel 
Floods all the deep-blue gloom with 
beams divine ; 



74 THE LADY OF SHALOTT AND OTHER POEMS 



All night the splinter'd crags that 
wall the dell 
"With spires of silver shine/ 

As one that museth where broad sun- 
shine laves 
The lawn by some cathedral, thro' 
the door 190 

Hearing the holy organ rolling 
waves 
Of sound on roof and floor 

Within, and anthem sung, is charm' d 
and tied 
To where he stands, — so stood I, 
when that flow 
Of music left the lips of her that 
died 
To save her father's vow ; 

The daughter of the warrior Gilead- 
ite, 
A maiden pure ; as when she went 
along 
From Mizpeh's tower'd gate with wel- 
come light, 
With timbrel and with song. 200 

My words leapt forth : ' Heaven heads 
the count of crimes 
With that wild oath.' She render' d 
answer high : 
1 Not so, nor once alone ; a thousand 
times 
I would be born and die. 

1 Single I grew, like some green plant, 
whose root 
Creeps to the garden water-pipes 
beneath, 
Feeding the flower ; but ere my flower 
to fruit 
Changed, I was ripe for death. 

'My God, my land, my father — these 
did move 
Me from my bliss of life that Nature 
gave, 210 

Lower'd softly with a threefold cord 
of love 
Down to a silent grave. 

4 And I went mourning, "No fair He- 
brew boy 
Shall smile away my maiden blame 
among 



The Hebrew mothers" — emptied of 
all joy, 
Leaving the dance and song, 

' Leaving the olive-gardens far below. 

Leaving the promise of my bridal 

bower, 

The valleys of grape-loaded vines that 

glow 

Beneath the battled tower. 220 

1 The light white cloud swam over us. 
Anon 
We heard the lion roaring from his 
den; 
We saw the large white stars rise one 
by one, 
Or, from the darken'd glen, 

' Saw God divide the night with flying 
flame, 
And thunder on the everlasting hills. 
I heard Him, for He spake, and grief 
became 
A solemn scorn of ills. 

' When the next moon was roll'd into 
the sky, 
Strength came to me that equall'd 
my desire. 230 

How beautiful a thing it was to 
die 
For God and for my sire ! 

'It comforts me in this one thought 
to dwell, 
That I subdued me to my father's 
will ; 
Because the kiss he gave me, ere I 
fell, 
Sweetens the spirit still. 

1 Moreover it is written that my race 
Hew'd Ammon, hip and thigh, from 
Aroer 
On Arnon unto Minneth.' Here her 
face 
Glow'd, as I look'd at her. 240 

She lock'd her lips ; she left me where 
I stood : 
'Glory to God,' she sang, and past 
afar, 
Thridding the sombre boskage of the 
wood, 
Toward the morning-star. 



THE BLACKBIRD 



75 



Losing her carol I stood pensively, 
As one that from a casement leans 
his head, 
When midnight bells cease ringing 
suddenly, 
And the old year is dead. 

* Alas ! alas ! ' a low voice, full of care, 

Murmur' d beside me : ' Turn and 

look on me.; 250 

I am that Rosamond, whom men call 

fair, 

If what I was I be. 

' Would I had been some maiden coarse 
and poor ! 
O me, that I should ever see the 
light ! 
Those dragon eyes of anger' d Eleanor 
Do hunt me, day and night.' 

She ceased in tears, fallen from hope 
and trust ; 
To whom the Egyptian: 'O, you 
tamely died ! 
You should have clung to Fulvia's 
waist, and thrust 
The dagger thro' her side.' 260 

With that sharp sound the white 
dawn's creeping beams, 
Stolen to my brain, dissolved the 
mystery 
Of folded sleep. The captain of my 
dreams 
Ruled in the eastern sky. 

Morn broaden'd on the borders of the 
dark 
Ere I saw her who clasp'd in her 
last trance 
Her murder' d father's head, or Joan 
of Arc, 
A light of ancient France ; 

Or her who knew that Love can van- 
quish Death, 
Who kneeling, with one arm about 
her king, 270 

Drew forth the poison with her balmy 
breath, 
Sweet as new buds in spring. 

No memory labors longer from the deep 
Gold-mines of thought to lift the 
hidden ore 



That glimpses, moving up, than I 
from sleep 
To gather and tell o'er 

Each little sound and sight. With 
what dull pain 
Compass' d, how eagerly I sought to 
strike 
Into that wondrous track of dreams 
again ! 
But no two dreams are like. 280 

As when a soul laments, which hath 
been blest, 
Desiring what is mingled with past 
years, 
In yearnings that can never be exprest 
By signs or groans or tears ; 

Because all words, tho' cull'd with 
choicest art, 
Failing to give the bitter of the 
sweet, 
Wither beneath the palate, and the 
heart 
Faints, faded by its heat. 



THE BLACKBIRD 

O blackbird ! sing me something 
well : 
While all the neighbors shoot thee 

round, 
I keep smooth plats of fruitful 
ground, 
Where thou mayst warble, eat, and 
dwell. 

The espaliers and the standards all 
Are thine ; the range of lawn and 

park ; 
The unnetted black -hearts ripen 
dark, 
All thine, against the garden wall. 

Yet, tho' I spared thee all the spring, 
Thy sole delight is, sitting still, 
With that gold dagger of thy bill 

To fret the summer jenneting. 

A golden bill ! the silver tongue, 
Cold February loved, is dry ; 
Plenty corrupts the melody 

That made thee famous once when 
young ; 



THE LADY OF SHALOTT AND OTHER POEMS 




4 Toll ye the church-bell sad and slow ' 



And in the sultry garden-squares. 
Now thy flute-notes are changed to 

coarse, 
I hear thee not at all, or hoarse 

As when a hawker hawks his wares. 

Take warning ! he that will not sing 
While yon sun prospers in the blue, 
Shall sing for want, ere leaves are 
new, . 

Caught in the frozen palms of Spring. 

THE DEATH OF THE OLD 
YEAR 

Full knee-deep lies the winter snow, 
And the winter winds are wearily 
sighing ; 



Toll ye the church-bell sad and slow, 
And tread softly and speak low, 
For the old year lies a-dying. 
Old year, you must not die ; 
You came to us so readily, 
You lived with us so steadily, 
Old year, you shall not die. 

He lieth still, he doth not move ; 
He will not see the dawn of day. 
He hath no other life above. 
He gave me a friend, and a true true- 
love, 
And the New-year will take 'em away. 

Old year, you must not go ; 

So long as you have been with 
us, . 

Such joy as you have seen with us, 

Old year, you shall not go. 



TO J. S. 



77 



He froth'd his bumpers to the brim ; 

A jollier year we shall not see. 

But tho' his eyes are waxing dim, 

And tho' his foes speak ill of him, 

He was a friend to me. 

Old year, you shall not die ; 
We did so laugh and cry with you, 
I 've half a mind to die with you, 
Old year, if you must die. 

He was full of joke and jest, 
But all his merry quips are o'er. 
To see him die, across the waste 
His son and heir doth ride post-haste, 
But he'll be dead before. 

Every one for his own. 

The night is starry and cold, my 
friend, 

And the New-year blithe and bold, 
my friend, • 

Comes up to take his own. 

How hard he breathes ! over the snow 
I heard just now the crowing cock. 
The shadows flicker to and fro ; 
The cricket chirps; the light burns 

low ; 
'T is nearly twelve o'clock. 

Shake hands, before you die. 

Old year, we'll dearly rue for 
you. 

What is it we can do for you ? 

Speak out before you die. 

His face is growing sharp and thin. 
Alack ! our friend is gone. 
Close up his eyes ; tie up his chin ; 
Step from the corpse, and let him in 
That standeth there alone, 

And waiteth at the door. 

There 's a new foot on the floor, 
my friend, 

And a new face at the door, my 
friend, 

A new face at the door. 



TO J. S. 

[James Spedding] 

The wind that beats the mountain 
blows 

More softly round the open wold, 
And gently comes the world to those 

That are cast in gentle mould. 



And me this knowledge bolder made, 
Or else I had not dared to flow 

In these words toward you, and invade 
Even with a verse your holy woe. 

'T is strange that those we lean on most, 
Those in whose laps our limbs are 
nursed, . 

Fall into shadow, soonest lost ; 

Those we love first are taken first. 

God gives us love. Something to love 
He lends us ; but, when love is 
grown 

To ripeness, that on which it throve 
Falls off, and love is left alone. 

This is the curse of time. Alas ! 

In grief I am not all unlearn'd ; 
Once thro' mine own doors Death did 
pass ; 

One went who never hath return'd. 

He will not smile — not speak to me 
Once more. Two years his chair 
is seen 

Empty before us. That was he 

Without whose life I had not been. 

Your loss is rarer ; for this star 
Rose with you thro' a little arc 

Of heaven, nor having wander'd far 
Shot on the sudden into dark. 

I knew your brother ; his mute dust 
I honor and his living worth ; 

A man more pure and bold and just 
Was never born into the earth. 

I have not look'd upon you nigh 

Since that dear soul hath fallen 
asleep. 

Great Nature is more wise than I ; 
I will not tell you not to weep. 

And tho' mine own eyes fill with dew, 
Drawn from the spirit thro' the 
brain, 
I will not even preach to you, 

1 Weep, weeping dulls the inward 
pain.' 

Let Grief be her own mistress still. 

She loveth her own anguish deep 
More than much pleasure. Let her will 

Be done — to weep or not to weep. 



78 THE LADY OF SHALOTT AND OTHER POEMS 



I will not say, ' God's ordinance 

Of death is blown in every wind ; ' 

For that is not a common chance 
That takes away a noble mind. 

His memory long will live alone 

In all our hearts, as mournful 
light 
That broods above the fallen sun, 

And dwells in heaven half the 
night. 

Vain solace ! Memory standing near 
Cast down her eyes, and in her 
throat 

Her voice seem'd distant, and a tear 
Dropt on the letters as I wrote. 

I wrote I know not what. In truth, 
How should I soothe you any way, 

Who miss the brother of your youth ? 
Yet something I did wish to say ; 

For he too was a friend to me. 

Both are my friends, and my true 
breast 
Bleedeth for both ; yet it may be 

That only silence suiteth best. 

Words weaker than your grief would 
make 
Grief more. 'T were better I 
should cease 
Although myself could almost take 
The place of him that sleeps in 
peace. 

Sleep sweetly, tender heart, in peace ; 

Sleep, holy spirit, blessed soul, 
While the stars burn, the moons in- 
crease, 

And the great ages onward roll. 

Sleep till the end, true soul and sweet. 
Nothing comes to thee new or 
strange. 
Sleep full of rest from head to feet ; 
Lie still, dry dust, secure of 
change. 



ON A MOURNER 



Nature, so far as in her lies, 
Imitates God, and turns her face 



To every land beneath the skies, 
Counts nothing that she meets with 

base, 
But lives and loves in every place ; 



Fills out the homely quickset-screens, 
And makes the purple lilac ripe, 

Steps from her airy hill, and greens 
The swamp, where humm'd the 

dropping snipe, 
With moss and braided marish-pipe ; 

in 
And on thy heart a finger lays, 

Saying, ' Beat quicker, for the time 
Is pleasant, and the woods and w T ays 
Are pleasant, and the beech and 

lime 
P*t forth and feel a gladder clime/ 

IV 

And murmurs of a deeper voice, 
Going before to some far shrine, 

Teach that sick heart the stronger 
choice, 
Till all thy life one way incline 
With one wide Will that closes thine. 



And when the zoning eve has died 
Where yon dark valleys wind for- 
lorn, 
Come Hope and Memory, spouse and 
bride, 
From out the borders of the morn, 
With that fair child betwixt them 
born. 



And when no mortal motion jars 
The blackness round the tombing 
sod, 
Thro' silence aod the trembling stars 
Comes Faith from tracts no feet have 

trod, 
And Virtue, like a household god 



Promising empire ; such as those 
Once heard at dead of night to 
greet 
Troy's wandering prince, so that he 
rose 
With sacrifice, while all the fleet 
Had rest by stony hills of Crete. 



LOVE THOU THY LAND 



79 



< YOU ASK ME, WHY, THO' ILL 
AT EASE' 

You ask me, why, tho' ill at ease, 
Within this region I subsist, 
Whose spirits falter in the mist, 

And languish for the purple seas. 

It is the land that freemen till, 
That sober-suited Freedom chose, 
The land, where girt with friends or 
foes 

A man may speak the thing he will ; 

A land of settled government, 
A land of just and old renown, 
Where Freedom slowly broadens 
down 

From precedent to precedent ; 

Where faction seldom gathers head, 
But, by degrees to fullness wrought, 
The strength of some diffusive 
thought 
Hath time and space to work and 
spread. 

Should banded unions persecute 
Opinion, and induce a time 
When single thought is civil crime, 

And individual freedom mute, 

Tho' power should make from land to 
land 
The name of Britain trebly great — 
Tho' every channel of the State 
Should fill and choke with golden 
sand — 

Yet waft me from the harbor-mouth, 
Wild wind ! I seek a warmer 

sky, 
And I will see before I die 

The palms and temples of the South. 



4 OF OLD SAT FREEDOM ON 
THE HEIGHTS' 

Of old sat Freedom on the heights, 
The thunders breaking at her feet ; 

Above her shook the starry lights ; 
She heard the torrents meet. 

There in her place she did rejoice, 
Self -gather' d in her prophet-mind, 



But fragments of her mighty voice 
Came rolling on the wind. 

Then stept she down thro' town and 
field 

To mingle with the human race, 
And part by part to men reveal'd 

The fullness of her face — 

Grave mother of maj estic works, 
From her isle-altar gazing down, 

Who, Godlike, grasps the triple forks, 
And, king-like, wears the crown. 

Her open eyes desire the truth. 

The wisdom of a thousand years 
Is in them. May perpetual youth 

Keep dry their light from tears ; 

That her fair form may stand and shine, 
Make bright our days and light our 
dreams, 

Turning to scorn with lips divine 
The falsehood of extremes ! 



< LOVE THOU THY LAND, WITH 
LOYE FAR-BROUGHT' 

Love thou thy land, with love far- 
brought 
From out the storied past, and used 
Within the present, but transfused 
Thro' future time by power of 
thought ; 

True love turn'd round on fixed poles, 
Love, that endures not sordid ends, 
For English natures, freemen, 
friends, 

Thy brothers and immortal souls. 

But pamper not a hasty time, 

Nor feed with crude imaginings 10 
The herd, wild hearts and feeble 
wings 

That every sophister can lime. 

Deliver not the tasks of might 
To weakness, neither hide the ray 
From those, not blind, who wait for 
day, 

Tho' sitting girt with doubtful light. 

Make knowledge circle with the 
winds ; 



8o THE LADY OF SHALOTT AND OTHER POEMS 



But let her herald, Reverence, fly- 
Before her to whatever sky 
Bear seed of men and growth of 
minds. 20 

Watch what main-currents draw the 
years ; 

Cut Prejudice against the grain. 

But gentle words are always gain ; 
Regard the weakness of thy peers. 

Nor toil for title, place, or touch 
( )f pension, neither count on praise — 
It grows to guerdon after-days. 

Nor deal in watch-words overmuch ; 

Not clinging to some ancient saw, 
Not rnaster'd by some modern 
term, 30 

Not swift nor slow to change, but 
firm ; 
And in its season bring the law, 

That from Discussion's lip may fall 
With Life that, working strongly, 

binds — 
Set in all lights by many minds, 

To close the interests of all. 

For Nature also, cold and warm, 
And moist and dry, devising long. 
Thro' many agents making strong, 

Matures the individual form. 40 

Meet is it changes should control 
Our being, lest we rust in ease. 
We all are changed by still degrees, 

All but the basis of the soul. 

So let the change which comes be 
free 
To ingroove itself with that which 

Hies, 
And work, a joint of state, that 
plies 
Its office, moved with sympathy. 

;V saying hard to shape in act ; 

For all the past of Time reveals 50 
A bridal dawn of thunder-peals, 

Wherever Thought hath wedded Fact. 

Even now we hear with inward strife 
A motion toiling in the gloom — 
The Spirit of the years to come 

Yearning to mix himself with Life. 



A slow-develop'd strength awaits 
Completion in a painful school ; 
Phantoms of other forms of rule, 

New Majesties of mighty States — 60 

The warders of the growing hour, 
But vague in vapor, hard to mark ; 
And round them sea and air are 
dark 

AVith great contrivances of Power. 

Of many changes, aptly join'd, 
Is bodied forth the second whole. 
Regard gradation, lest the soul 

Of Discord race the rising wind ; 

A wind to puff your idol-fires, 69 

And heap their ashes on the head ; 
To shame the boast so often made, 

That we are wiser than our sires. 

O, yet, if Nature's evil star 
Drive men in manhood, as in youth, 
To follow flying steps of Truth 

Across the brazen bridge of war — 

If New and Old, disastrous feud, 
Must ever shock, like armed foes, 
And this be true, till Time shall 
close, 

That Principles are rain'd in blood ; 80 

Not yet the wise of heart would 
cease 
To hold his hope thro' shame and 

guilt, 
But with his hand against the 
hilt, 
Would pace the troubled land, like 
Peace ; 

Not less, tho' dogs of Faction bay, 
Would serve his kind in deed and 

word, 
Certain, if knowledge bring the 
sword, 
That knowledge takes the sword 
away — 

Would love the gleams of good that 
broke 
From either side, nor veil his eyes , 90 
And if some dreadful need should 
rise 
Would strike, and firmly, and one 
stroke. 



THE GOOSE 



8r 



To-morrow yet would reap to-day, 
As we bear blossom of the dead ; 
Earn well the thrifty months, nor 
wed 

Raw Haste, half-sister to Delay. 



ENGLAND AND AMERICA IN 

1782 

O thou that sendest out the man 

To rule by land and sea, 
Strong mother of a Lion-line, 
Be proud of those strong sons of thine 

Who wrench' d their rights from 
thee ! 

What wonder if in noble heat 

Those men thine arms withstood, 

Retaught the lesson thou hadst taught, 

And in thy spirit with thee fought — 

Who sprang from English blood ! 

But thou rejoice with liberal joy, 
Lift up thy rocky face, 



And shatter, when the storms are 

black, 
In many a streaming torrent back, 
The seas that shock thy base ! 

Whatever harmonies of law 

The growing world assume, 
Thy work is thine — the single note 
From that deep chord which Hamp- 
den smote 
Will vibrate to the doom. 



THE GOOSE 

I knew an old wife lean and poor, 
Her rags scarce held together ; 

There strode a stranger to the door, 
And it was windy weather. 

He held a goose upon his arm, 
He utter'd rhyme and reason : 

'Here, take the goose, and keep you 
warm, 
It is a stormy season/ 




"JftHN THOMPSON 



4 Quoth she, " The devil take the goose, 
And God forget the stranger " ' 



82 THE LADY OF SHALOTT AND OTHER POEMS 



She caught the white goose by the 
leg, 

A goose — 'twas no great matter. 
The goose let fall a golden egg 

With cackle and with clatter. 

She dropt the goose, and caught the 
pelf, 
And ran to tell her neighbors, 
And bless' d herself, and cursed her- 
self, 
And rested from her labors ; 

And feeding high, and living soft, 
Grew plump and able-bodied, 

Until the grave churchwarden doff'd, 
The parson smirk' d and nodded. 

So sitting, served by man and maid, 
She felt her heart grow prouder ; 

But ah ! the more the white goose 
laid 
It clack'd and cackled louder. 

It clutter'd here, it chuckled there, 
It stirr'd the old wife's mettle ; 

She shifted in her elbow-chair, 
And hurl'd the pan and kettle. 

' A quinsy choke thy cursed note ! ' 
Then wax'd her anger stronger. 

'Go, take the goose, and wring her 
throat, 
I will not bear it longer.' 



Then yelp'd the cur, and yawl'd the 
cat, 
Ran Gaffer, stumbled Gammer. 
The goose flew this way and flew 
that, 
And fill'd the house with clamor. 

As head and heels upon the floor 
They flounder'd all together, 

There strode a stranger to the door, 
And it was windy weather. 

He took the goose upon his arm, 
He utter'd words of scorning : 

'So keep you cold, or keep you 
warm, 
It is a stormy morning. ' 

The wild wind rang from park and 
plain, 

And round the attics rumbled, 
Till all the tables danced again, 

And half the chimneys tumbled. 

The glass blew in, the fire blew out, 
The blast was hard and harder. 

Her cap blew off, her gown blew 
up, 
And a whirlwind clear'd the larder ; 

And while on all sides breaking loose 
Her household fled the danger, 

Quoth she, ' The devil take the goose, 
And God forget the stranger ! ' 




1 " An arm 
Rose up from out the bosom of the lake, 
Clothed in white samite " ' 

ENGLISH IDYLS AND OTHER POEMS 

THE EPIC 



At Francis Allen's on the Christmas- 
eve, — 

The game of forfeits done — the girls 
all kiss'd 

Beneath the sacred bush and past 
away — 

The parson Holmes, the poet Everard 
Hall, 



The host, and I sat round the wassail- 
bowl, 

Then half-way ebb'd ; and there we 
held a talk, 

How all the old honor had from Christ- 
mas gone, 

Or gone or dwindled down to some odd 
games 

In some odd nooks like this ; till I, tired 
out 



8 4 



ENGLISH IDYLS AND OTHER POEMS 



With cutting eights that day upon the 
pond, 10 

Where, three times slipping from the 
outer edge, 

I bump'd the ice into three several 
stars, 

Fell in a doze ; and half -awake I heard 

The parson taking wide and wider 
sweeps, 

Now harping on the church- commis- 
sioners, 

Now hawking at geology and schism ; 

Until I woke, and found him settled 
down 

Upon the general decay of faith 

Right thro' the world : ' at home was 
little left, 

And none abroad ; there was no anchor, 
none, 20 

To hold by/ Francis, laughing, clapt 
his hand 

On Everard's shoulder, with 'I hold, 
by him.' 

' And I,' quoth Everard, 'by the was- 
sail-bowl.' 

'Why yes,' I said, 'we knew your 
gift that way 

At college ; but another which you 
had — 

I mean of verse (for so we held it then), 

What came of that?' 'You know,' 
said Frank, ' he burnt 

His epic, his King Arthur, some twelve 
books ' — 

And then to me demanding why : ' O, 
sir, 

He thought that nothing new was said, 
or else 30 

Something so said 'twas nothing — 
that a truth 

Looks freshest in the fashion of the 
day; 

God knows ; he has a mint of reasons ; 
ask. 

It pleased me well enough.' 'Nay, 
nay,' said Hall, 

'Why take the style of those heroic 
times ? 

For nature brings not back the masto- 
don, 

Nor we those times ; and why should 
any man 

Eemodel models ? these twelve books 
of mine 

Were faint Homeric echoes, nothing- 
worth, 



Mere chaff and draff, much better 
burnt.' 'But I,' 40 

Said Francis, ' pick'd the eleventh from 
this hearth, 

And have it ; keep a thing, its use will 
come. 

I hoard it as a sugar-plum for Holmes. ' 

He laugh'd, and I, tho' sleepy, like a 
horse 

That hears the corn-bin open, prick'd 
my ears ; 

For I remember'd Everard's college 
fame 

When we were Freshmen. Then at 
my request 

He brought it ; and the poet, little 
urged, 

But with some prelude of disparage- 
ment, 

Read, mouthing out his hollow oes and 
aes, 50 

Deep-chested music, and to this re- 
sult. 



MORTE D'ARTHUR 

So all day long the noise of battle 

roll'd 
Among the mountains by the winter 

sea, 
Until King Arthur's table, man by 

man, 
Had fallen in Lyonness about their lord, 
King Arthur ; then, because his wound 

was deep, 
The bold Sir Bedivere uplifted him, 
Sir Bedivere, the last of all his knights, 
And bore him to a chapel nigh the field, 
A broken chancel with a broken 

cross, 60 

That stood on a dark strait of barren 

land. ^ 

On one side lay the ocean, and on one 
Lay a great water, and the moon was 

full. 
Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedi- 
vere : 
' The sequel of to-day unsolders all 
The goodliest fellowship of famous 

knights 
Whereof this world holds record. Such 

a sleep 
They sleep — the men I loved. I think 

that we 
Shall never more, at any future time, 



MORTE D'ARTHUR 



85 



Delight our souls with talk of knightly 

deeds, 70 

Walking about the gardens and the 

halls 
Of Camelot, as in the days that were. 
I perish by this people which I 

made, — 
Tho' Merlin sware that I should come 

again 
To rule once more — but let what will 

be be, 
I am so deeply smitten thro' the helm 
That without help I cannot last till 

morn. 
Thou therefore take my brand Excali- 

bur, 
Which was my pride ; for thou re- 

memberest how 
In those old days, one summer noon, 

an arm 80 

Rose up from out the bosom of the 

lake, 
Clothed in white samite, mystic, won- 
derful, 
Holding the sword — and how I row'd 

across 
And took it, and have worn it, like a 

king ; 
And, wheresoever I am sung or told 
In aftertime, this also shall be known. 
But now delay not ; take Excalibur, 
And fling him far into the middle 

mere ; 
Watch what thou seest, and lightly 

bring me word.' 
To him replied the bold Sir Bedi- 

vere : 90 

* It is not meet, Sir King, to leave thee 

thus, 
Aidless, alone, and smitten thro' the 

helm. 
A little thing may harm a wounded 

man. 
Yet I thy hest will all perform at full, 
Watch what I see, and lightly bring 

thee word.' 
So saying, from the ruin'd shrine he 

stept 
And in the moon athwart the place of 

tombs, 
Where lay the mighty bones of ancient 

men, 
Old knights, and over them the sea- 
wind sang 
Shrill, chill, with flakes of foam. He, 

stepping down 100 



By zigzag paths and juts of pointed 

rock, 
Came on the shining levels of the 

lake. 
There drew he forth the brand Ex- 
calibur, 
And o'er him, drawing it, the winter 

moon, 
Brightening the skirts of a long cloud, 

ran forth 
And sparkled keen with frost against 

the hilt ; 
For all the haft twinkled with diamond 

sparks, 
Myriads of topaz -lights, and jacinth- 
work 
Of subtlest jewellery. He gazed so 

long 
That both his eyes were dazzled, as he 

stood, no 

This way and that dividing the swift 

mind, 
In act to throw; but at the last it 

seem'd 
Better to leave Excalibur conceal'd 
There in the many-knotted water-flags, 
That whistled stiff and dry about the 

marge. 
So strode he back slow to the wounded 

king. 
Then spake King Arthur to Sir 

Bedivere : 
'Hast thou perform'd my mission 

which I gave ? 
What is it thou hast seen, or what 

hast heard ? ' 
And answer made the bold Sir Bedi- 
vere : 120 
'I heard the ripple washing in the 

reeds, 
And the wild water lapping on the 

crag.' 
To whom replied King Arthur, faint 

and pale : 
' Thou hast betray'd thy nature and 

thy name, 
Not rendering true answer, asbeseem'd 
Thy fealty, nor like a noble knight ; 
For surer sign had follow'd, either 

hand, 
Or voice, or else a motion of the 

mere. 
This is a shameful thing for men to 

lie. 
Yet now, I charge thee, quickly go 

again 130 



86 



ENGLISH IDYLS AND OTHER POEMS 



As thou art lief and dear, and do the 

thing 
I hade thee, watch, and lightly bring 

me word/ 
Then went Sir Bedivere the second 

time 
Across the ridge, and paced beside the 

mere, 
Counting the dewy pebbles, fix'd in 

thought ; 
But when he saw the wonder of the 

hilt, 
Bow curiously and strangely chased, 

he smote 
His palms together, and he cried aloud : 
'And if indeed I cast the brand 

away, 
Surely a precious thing, one worthy 

note, 140 

Should thus be lost forever from the 

earth, 
Which might have pleased the eyes 

of many men. 
What good should follow this, if this 

were done ? 
What harm, undone ? deep harm to 

disobey, 
Seeing obedience is the bond of rule. 
Were it well to obey then, if a king 

demand 
An act unprofitable, against himself ? 
The king is sick, and knows not what 

he does. 
What record, or what relic of my lord 
Should be to aftertime, but empty 

breath 150 

And rumors of a doubt ? but were this 

kept, 
Stored in some treasure - house of 

mighty kings, 
Some one might show it at a joust of 

arms, 
Saying, "King Arthur's sword, Ex- 

calibur, 
Wrought by the lonely maiden of the 

lake ; 
Nine years she wrought it, sitting in 

the deeps 
Upon the hidden bases of the hills." 
So might some old man speak in the 

aftertime 
To all the people, winning reverence ; 
But now much honor and much fame 

were lost.' 160 

So spake he, clouded with his own 

conceit. 



And hid Excalibur the second time, 
And so strode back slow to the 

wounded king. 
Then spoke King Arthur, breathing 

heavily : 
'What is it thou hast seen, or what 

hast heard ? ' 
And answer made the bold Sir Bedi- 
vere: 
' I heard the water lapping on the crag, 
And the long ripple washing in the 

reeds/ 
To whom replied King Arthur, 

much in wrath : 
' Ah, miserable and unkind, untrue, 
Unknightly, traitor-hearted! Woe is 

me ! 171 

Authority forgets a dying king, 
Laid widow' d of the power in his eye 
That bow'd the will. I see thee what 

thou art, 
For thou, the latest-left of all my 

knights, 
In whom should meet the offices of all, 
Thou wouldst betray me for the pre- 
cious hilt ; 
Either from lust of gold, or like a girl 
Valuing the giddy pleasure of the 

eyes. 
Yet, for a man may fail in duty twice, 
And the thud time may prosper, get 

thee hence ; 181 

But, if thou spare to fling Excalibur, 
I will arise and slay thee with my 

hands/ 
Then quickly rose Sir Bedivere, 

and ran, 
And, leaping down the ridges lightly, 

plunged 
Among the bulrush-beds, and clutch'd 

the sword, 
And strongly wheel'd and threw it. 

The great brand 
Made lightnings in the splendor of 

the moon, 
And flashing round and round, and 

whirl' d in an arch, 
Shot like a streamer of the northern 

morn, 190 

Seen where the moving isles of winter 

shock 
By night, with noises of the northern 

sea. 
So flash'd and fell the brand Excalibur ; 
But ere he dipt the surface, rose an 

arm 



MORTE D' ARTHUR 



87 



Cloth" d in white samite, mystic, won- 
derful, 
And caught him by the hilt, and 

brandish' d him 
Three times, and drew him under in 

the mere. 
And lightly went the other to the 

king. 
Then spoke King Arthur, drawing 

thicker breath : 
' Now see I by thine eyes that this is 

done. 200 

Speak out ; what is it thou hast heard, 

or seen ? ' 
And answer made the bold Sir Bedi- 

vere : 
; Sir King, I closed mine eyelids, lest 

the gems 
Should blind my purpose, for I never 

saw, 
Nor shall see, here or elsewhere, till I 

die, 
Not tho' I live three lives of mortal 

men, 
So great a miracle as yonder hilt. 
Then with both hands I flung him, 

wheeling him ; 
But when I look'd again, behold an 

arm, 
Clothed in white samite, mystic, won- 
derful, 210 
That caught him by the hilt, and 

brandish' d him 
Three times, and drew him under in 

the mere.' 
And answer made King Arthur, 

breathing hard : 
' My end draws nigh ; 't is time that I 

were gone. 
Make broad thy shoulders to receive 

my weight, 
And bear me to the margin ; yet I fear 
My wound hath taken cold, and I 

shall die.' 
So saying, from the pavement he 

half rose, 
Slowly, with pain, reclining on his 

arm, 
And looking wistfully with wide blue 

eyes 220 

As in a picture. Him Sir Bedivere 
Kemorsefully regarded thro' his tears, 
And would have spoken, but he found 

not words, 
Then took with care, and kneeling on 

one knee, 



O'er both his shoulders drew the lan- 
guid hands, 
And rising bore him thro' the place of 

tombs. 
But, as he walk'd, King Arthur 

panted hard, 
Like one that feels a nightmare on his 

bed 
When all the house is mute. So sigh'd 

the king, 
Muttering and murmuring at his ear, 

' Quick, quick ! 230 

I fear it is too late, and I shall die.' 
But the other swiftly strode from 

ridge to ridge, 
Clothed with his breath, and looking, 

as he walk'd, 
Larger than human on the frozen hills. 
He heard the deep behind him, and a 

cry 
Before. His own thought drove him 

like a goad. 
Dry clash'd his harness in the icy caves 
And barren chasms, and all to left 

and right 
The bare black cliff clang'd round 

him, as he based 
His feet on juts of slippery crag that 

rang 240 

Sharp-smitten with the dint of armed 

heels — 
And on a sudden, lo ! the level lake, 
And the long glories of the winter 

moon. 
Then saw they how there hove a 

dusky barge, 
Dark as a funeral scarf from stem to 

stern, 
Beneath them ; and descending they 

were ware 
That all the decks were dense with 

stately forms 
Black - stoled, black - hooded, like a 

dream — by these 
Three queens with crowns of gold — 

and from them rose 
A cry that shiver' d to the tingling 

stars, 250 

And, as it were one voice, an agony 
Of lamentation, like a wind that shrills 
All night in a waste land, where no 

one comes, 
Or hath come, since the making of 

the world. 
Then murmur'd Arthur, 4 Place me 

in the barge,' 



88 



ENGLISH IDYLS AND OTHER POEMS 



And to the barge they came. There 

those three queens • 
Put forth their hands, and took the 

king, and wept. 
But she that rose the tallest of them all 
And fairest laid his head upon her lap, 
And loosed the shatter'd casque, and 

chafed his hands, 260 

And call'd him by his name, com- 
plaining loud, 
And dropping bitter tears against his 

brow 
Striped with dark blood ; for all his 

face was white 
And colorless, and like the wither'd 

moon 
Smote by the fresh beam of the spring- 
ing east ; 
And all his greaves and cuisses dash'd 

with drops 
Of onset ; and the light and lustrous 

curls — 
That made his forehead like a rising 

sun 
High from the dais-throne — were 

parch'd with dust ; 
Or, clotted into points and hanging 

loose, 270 

Mix'd with the knightly growth that 

fringed his lips. 
So like a shatter'd column lay the 

king; 
Not like that Arthur who, with lance 

in rest, 
From spur to plume a star of tourna- 
ment, 
Shot thro* the lists at Camelot, and 

charged 
Before the eyes of ladies and of kings. 
Then loudly cried the bold Sir Bedi- 

vere: 
* Ah ! my Lord Arthur, whither shall 

I go? 
Where shall I hide my forehead and 

my eyes ? 
For now I see the true old times are 

dead, 280 

When every morning brought a noble 

chance, 
And every chance brought out a noble 

knight. 
Such times have been not since the 

light that led 
The holy Elders with the gift of myrrh. 
But now the whole round table is 

dissolved 



Which was an image of the mighty 

world ; 
And I, the last, go forth companion- 
less, 
And the days darken round me, and 

the years, 
Among new men, strange faces, other 

minds.' 
And slowly answer'd Arthur from 

the barge : 290 

' The old order changeth, yielding 

place to new, 
And God fulfils himself in many ways, 
Lest one good custom should corrupt 

the world. 
Comfort thyself : what comfort is in 

me? 
I have lived my life, and that which 

I have done 
May He within himself make pure! 

but thou, 
If thou shouldst never see my face 

again, 
Pray for my soul. More things are 

wrought by prayer 
Than this world dreams of. Where- 
fore, let thy voice 
Rise like a fountain for me night and 

day. 300 

For what are men better than sheep or 

goats 
That nourish a blind life within the 

brain, 
If, knowing God, they lift not hands 

of prayer 
Both for themselves and those who 

call them friend ? 
For so the whole round earth is every 

way 
Bound by gold chains about the feet 

of God. 
But now farewell. I am going a long 

way 
With these thou seest — if indeed I 

go — 
For all my mind is clouded with a 

doubt — 
To the island- valley of Avilion; 310 
Where falls not hail, or rain, or any 

snow, 
Nor ever wind blows loudly, but it 

lies 
Deep-meadow'd, happy, fair with or- 
chard lawns 
And bowery hollows crown'd with 

summer sea, 



MORTE D'ARTHUR 



89 



Where I will heal me of my grievous 
wound. ' 
So said he, and the barge with oar 
and sail 

Moved from the brink, like some full- 
breasted swan 

That, fluting a wild carol ere her death, 

Ruffles her pure cold plume, and takes 
the flood 



With swarthy webs. Long stood Sir 
Bedivere 32 o 

Revolving many memories, till the hull 

Look'd one black dot against the verge 
of dawn, 

And on the mere the wailing died away. 

Here ended Hall, and our last light, 
that long 




■ And call'd him by his name, complaininc loud, 
And dropping bitter tears against his brow 
Striped with dark blood ' 



9° 



ENGLISH IDYLS AND OTHER POEMS 



Had wink'd aud threatened darkness, 

flared and fell ; 
At which the parson, sent to sleep with 

sound. 
And waked with silence, grunted 

1 Good ! ' but we 
Sat rapt: it was the tone with which 

he read — 
Perhaps some modern touches here and 

there 
Redeem' d it from the charge of no- 
thingness — 330 
Or else we loved the man, and prized 

his work ; 
I know not ; but we sitting, as I said, 
The cock crew loud, as at that time of 

year 
The lusty bird takes every hour for 

dawn. 
Then Francis, muttering, like a man 

ill-used, 
'There now — that's nothing !' drew 

a little back, 
And drove his heel into the smoulder'd 

log, 
That sent a blast of sparkles up the 

flue. 
And so to bed, where yet in sleep I 

seem'd 
To sail with Arthur under looming 

shores, 340 

Point after point; till on to dawn, 

when dreams 
Begin to feel the truth and stir of 

day, 
To me, methought, who waited with 

the crowd, 
There came a bark that, blowing for- 
ward, bore 
King Arthur, like a modern gentleman 
Of stateliest port ; and all the people 

cried, 
' Arthur is come again : he cannot die.' 
Then those that stood upon the hills 

behind 
Repeated — ' Come again, and thrice 

as fair ; ' 
And, further inland, voices echoed — 

'Come 350 

With all good things, and war shall be 

no more.' 
At this a hundred bells began to peal, 
That with the sound I woke, and heard 

indeed 
The clear church-bells ring in the 

Christmas morn. 



THE GARDENERS DAUGHTER 

OR, THE PICTURES 

This morning is the morning of the 

day, 
When I and Eustace from the city 

went 
To see the Gardener's daughter ; I and 

he, 
Brothers in Art ; a friendship so com- 
plete 
Portion'd in halves between us, that 

we grew 
The fable of the city where we dwelt. 
My Eustace might have sat for Her- 
cules ; 
So muscular he spread, so broad of 

breast. 
He, by some law that holds in love, 

and draws 
The greater to the lesser, long desired 
A certain miracle of symmetry, u 

A miniature of loveliness, all grace 
Summ'd up and closed in little ; — Ju- 
liet, she 
So light of foot, so light of spirit — O, 

she 
To me myself, for some three careless 

moons, 
The summer pilot of an empty heart 
Unto the shores of nothing ! Know 

you not 
Such touches are but embassies of 

Love, 
To tamper with the feelings, ere he 

found 
Empire for life ? but Eustace painted 

her, 20 

And said to me, she sitting with us 

then, 
' When will you paint like this ? ' and 

I replied — 
My words were half in earnest, half 

in jest : 
"T is not your work, but Love's. 

Love, unperceived, 
A more ideal artist he than all, 
Came, drew your pencil from you, 

made 4 those eyes 
Darker than darkest pansies, and that 

hair 
More black than ashbuds in the front 

of March.' 
And Juliet answer'd laughing, ' Go 

and see 



THE GARDENER'S DAUGHTER 



9i 



The Gardener's daughter ; trust me, 
after that, 30 

You scarce can fail to match his mas- 
terpiece/ 

And up we rose, and on the spur we 
went. 
Not wholly in the busy world, nor 
quite 

Beyond it, blooms the garden that I 
love. 

News from the humming city comes 
to it 

In sound of funeral or of marriage 
bells ; 

And, sitting muffled in dark leaves, 
you hear 

The windy clanging of the minster 
clock ; 

Altho' between it and the garden lies 

A league of grass, wash'd by a slow 
broad stream, 40 

That, stirr'd with languid pulses of 
the oar, 

Waves all its lazy lilies, and creeps on, 

Barge-laden, to three arches of a bridge 

Crown' d with the minster-towers. 

The fields between 

Are dewy-fresh, browsed by deep- 
udder' d kine, 

And all about the large lime feathers 
low — 

The lime a summer home of murmur- 
ous wings. 
In that still place she, hoarded in 
herself, 

Grew, seldom seen ; not less among us 
lived 

Her fame from lip to lip. Who had 
not heard 50 

Of Rose, the Gardener's daughter ? 
Where was he, 

So blunt in memory, so old at heart, 

At such a distance from his youth in 
grief, 

That, having seen, forgot ? The com- 
mon mouth, 

So gross to express delight, in praise 
of her 

Grew oratory. Such a lord is Love, 

And Beauty such a mistress of the 
world. 
And if I said that Fancy, led by 
Love, 

Would play with flying forms and 
images, 

Yet this is also true, that, long before 



I look'd upon her, when I heard her 

name 61 

My heart was like a prophet to my 

heart, 
And told me I should love. A crowd 

of hopes, 
That sought to sow themselves like 

winged seeds, 
Born out of everything I heard and 

saw, 
Flutter' d about my senses and my 

soul; 
And vague desires, like fitful blasts of 

balm 
To one that travels quickly, made the 

air 
Of life delicious, and all kinds of 

thought, 
That verged upon them, sweeter than 

the dream 7 o 

Dream' d by a happy man, when the 

dark East, 
Unseen, is brightening to his bridal 

morn. 
And sure this orbit of the memory 

folds 
For ever in itself the day we went 
To see her. All the land in flowery 

squares, 
Beneath a broad and equal-blowing 

wind, 
Smelt of the coming summer, as one 

large cloud 
Drew downward ; but all else of heaven 

was pure 
Up to the sun, and May from verge to 

verge, 
And May with me from head to heel. 

And now, 80 

As tho' 't were yesterday, as tho' it were 
The hour just flown, that morn with 

all its sound — 
For those old Mays had thrice the life 

of these — 
Rings in mine ears. The steer forgot 

to graze, 
And, where the hedge-row cuts the 

pathway, stood, 
Leaning his horns into the neighbor 

field 
And lowing to his fellows. From the 

woods 
Came voices of the well-contented 

doves. 
The lark could scarce get out his notes 

for joy, 



9 2 



ENGLISH IDYLS AND OTHER POEMS 



But shook his song together as he 
near'd 90 

His happy home, the ground. To left 
and right, 

The cuckoo told his name to all the 
hills ; 

The mellow ouzel fluted in the elm ; 

The redcap whistled ; and the nightin- 
gale 

Sang loud, as tho' he were the bird of 
day. 
And Eustace turn'd, and smiling said 
to me : 

1 Hear how the bushes echo ! by my 
life, 

These birds have joyful thoughts. 
Think you they sing 

Like poets, from the vanity of song ? 

Or have they any sense of why they 
sing ? 100 

And would they praise the heavens for 
what they have ? ' 

And I made answer : ' Were there no- 
thing else 

For which to praise the heavens but 
only love, 

That only love were cause enough for 
praise/ 
Lightly he laugh'd, as one that read 
my thought, 
• And on we went ; but ere an hour had 
pass'd, 

We reach'd a meadow slanting to the 
North, 

Down which a well-worn pathway 
courted us 

To one green wicket in a privet 
hedge. 

This, yielding, gave into a grassy 
walk no 

Thro' crowded lilac-ambush trimly 
pruned ; 

And one warm gust, full-fed with per- 
fume, blew 

Beyond us, as we enter' d in the cool. 

The garden stretches southward. In 
the midst 

A cedar spread his dark-green layers 
of shade. 

The garden- glasses shone, and mo- 
mently 

The twinkling laurel scatter' d silver 
lights. 
1 Eustace,' I said, ' this wonder keeps 
the house.' 

He nodded, but a moment afterwards 



He cried, ' Look ! look ! ' Before he 
ceased I turn'd, 120 

And, ere a star can wink, beheld her 
there. 
For up the porch there grew an 
Eastern rose, 

That, flowering high, the last night's 
gale had caught 

And blown across the walk. One arm 
aloft — 

Gown'd in pure white that fitted to the 
shape — 

Holding the bush, to fix it back, she 
stood, 

A single stream of all her soft brown 
hair 

Pour'd on one side ; the shadow of the 
flowers 

Stole all the golden gloss, and, waver- 
ing 

Lovingly lower, trembled on her 
waist — 130 

Ah, happy shade ! — and still went 
wavering down, 

But, ere it touch' d a foot, that might 
have danced 

The greensward into greener circles, 
dipt, 

And mix'd with shadows of the com- 
mon ground. 

But the full day dwelt on her brows, 
and sunn'd 

Her violet eyes, and all her Hebe 
bloom, 

And doubled his own warmth against 
her lips, 

And on the bounteous wave of such a 
breast 

As never pencil drew. Half light, half 
shade, 

She stood, a sight to make an old man 
young. 140 

So rapt, we near'd the house ; but 
she, a Rose 

In roses, mingled with her fragrant 
toil, 

INTor heard us come, nor from her ten- 
dance turn'd 

Into the world without ; till close at 
hand, 

And almost ere I knew mine own in- 
tent, 

This murmur broke the stillness of 
that air 

Which brooded round about her : 

1 Ah, one rose, 



THE GARDENER'S DAUGHTER 



93 



One rose, but one, by those fair fingers 
cull'd, 

Were worth a hundred kisses press'd 
on lips 

Less exquisite than thine/ 

She look'd ; but all 

Suffused with blushes — neither self- 
possess' d 151 

Nor startled, but betwixt this mood 
and that, 

Divided in a graceful quiet — paused, 

And dropt the branch she held, and 
turning wound 

Her looser hair in braid, and stirr'd 
her lips 

For some sweet answer, tho' no answer 
came, 

Nor yet refused the rose, but granted it, 

And moved away, and left me, statue- 
like, 

In act to render thanks. 

I, that whole day, 

Saw her no more, altho' I linger'd 
there 160 

Till every daisy slept, and Love's white 
star 

Beam'd thro' the thicken'd cedar in the 
dusk. . 
So home we went, and all the live- 
long way 

With solemn gibe did Eustace banter 
me. 

'Now,' said he, 'will you climb the 
top of art. 

You cannot fail but work in hues to 
dim 

The Titianic Flora. Will you match 

My Juliet ? you, not you, — the mas- 
ter, Love, 

A more ideal artist he than all.' 
So home I went, but could not sleep 
for joy, 170 

Reading her perfect features in the 
gloom, 

Kissing the rose she gave me o'er and 
o'er, 

And shaping faithful record of the 
glance 

That graced the giving — such a noise 
of life 

Swarm'd in the golden present, such a 
voice 

Call'd to me from the years to come, 
and such 

A length of bright horizon rimm'd the 
dark. 



And all that night I heard the watch- 
man peal 
The sliding season; all that night I 

heard 
The heavy clocks knolling the drowsy 

hours. 180 

The drowsy hours, dispensers of all 

good, 
O'er the mute city stole with folded 

wings, 
Distilling odors on me as they went 
To greet their fairer sisters of the East. 
Love at first sight, first-born, and 

heir to all, 
Made this night thus. Henceforward 

squall nor storm 
Could keep me from that Eden where 

she dwelt. 
Light pretexts drew me : sometimes a 

Dutch love 
For tulips; then for roses, moss or 

musk, 
To grace my city rooms ; or fruits 

and cream 190 

Served in the weeping elm ; and more 

and more 
A word could bring the color to my 

cheek ; 
A thought would fill my eyes with 

happy dew ; 
Love trebled life within me, and with 

each 
The year increased. 

The daughters of the year, 
One after one, thro' that still garden 

pass'd ; 
Each garlanded with her peculiar 

flower 
Danced into light, and died into the 

shade ; 
And each in passing touch'd with some 

new grace 
Or seem'd to touch her, so that day 

by day, 200 

Like one that never can be wholly 

known, 
Her beauty grew ; till Autumn 

brought an hour 
For Eustace, when I heard his deep 

'I will,' 
Breathed, like the covenant of a God, 

to hold 
From thence thro' all the worlds ; but 

I rose up 
Full of his bliss, and following her 

dark eyes 



94 



ENGLISH IDYLS AND OTHER POEMS 




' The gray cathedral towers, 
Across a hazy glimmer of the west ' 



Felt earth as air beneath me, till I 

reach' d 
The wicket-gate, and found her stand- 
ing there. 
There sat we down upon a garden 

mound, 
Two mutually enfolded ; Love, the 

third, 210 

Between us, in the circle of his arms 
Enwound us both ; and over many . a 

range 
Of waning lime the gray cathedral 

towers, 
Across a hazy glimmer of the west, 
Reveal' d their shining windows. 

From them clash'd 
The bells ; we listen'd ; with the time 

we play'd, 
We spoke of other things ; we coursed 

about 



The subj ect most at heart, more near 
and near, 

Like doves about a dovecote, wheel- 
ing round 

The central wish, until we settled 
there. 220 

Then, in that time and place, I 
spoke to her, 

Requiring, tho' I knew it was mine 
own, 

Yet for the pleasure that I took to 
hear, 

Requiring at her hand the greatest 
gift, 

A woman's heart, the heart of her I 
loved ; 

And in that time and place she an- 
swer' d me, 

And in the compass of three little 
words, 



DORA 



95 



More musical than ever came in one, 
The silver fragments of a broken 

voice, 
Made me most happy, faltering, 'I 

am thine.' 230 

Shall I cease here ? Is this enough 

to say 
That my desire, like all strongest 

hopes, 
By its own energy fulfill' d itself, 
Merged in completion ? Would you 

learn at full 
How passion rose thro' circumstantial 

grades 
Beyond all grades develop'd ? and in- 
deed 
I had not staid so long to tell you 

all, 
But while I mused came Memory with 

sad eyes, 
Holding the folded annals of my 

youth ; 
And while I mused, Love with knit 

brows went by, 240 

And with a flying finger swept my 

lips, 
And spake, ' Be wise : not easily for- 
given 
Are those who, setting wide the doors 

that bar 
The secret bridal chambers of the 

heart, 
Let in the day.' Here, then, my 

words have end. 
Yet might I tell of meetings, of 

farewells — 
Of that which came between, more 

sweet than each, 
In whispers, like the whispers of the 

leaves 
That tremble round a nightingale — 

in sighs 
Which perfect Joy, perplex' d for ut- 
terance, 250 
Stole from her sister Sorrow. Might 

I not tell 
Of difference, reconcilement, pledges 

given, 
And vows, where there was never 

need of vows, 
And kisses, where the heart on one 

wild leap 
Hung tranced from all pulsation, as 

above 
The heavens between their fairy 

fleeces pale 



Sow'd all their mystic gulfs with 

fleeting stars ; 
Or while the balmy glooming, cres- 
cent-lit, 
Spread the light haze along the river- 
shores, 
And in the hollows ; or as once we 

met 260 

Unheedful, tho' beneath a whispering 

rain 
Night slid down one long stream of 

sighing wind, 
And in her bosom bore the baby, 

Sleep? 
But this whole hour your eyes have 

been intent 
On that veil'd picture — veil'd, for 

what it holds 
May not be dwelt on by the common 

day. 
This prelude has prepared thee. Raise 

thy soul, 
Make thine heart ready with thine 

eyes ; the time 
Is come to raise the veil. 

Behold her there, 
As I beheld her ere she knew my 

heart, 27a 

My first, last love ; the idol of my 

youth, 
The darling of my manhood, and, 

alas ! 
Now the most blessed memory of 

mine age. 



DORA 

With farmer Allan at the farm abode 
William and Dora. William was his 

son, 
And she his niece. He often look'd 

at them, 
And often thought, ' I '11 make them 

man and wife.' 
Now Dora felt her uncle's will in all, 
And yearn'd toward William ; but 

the youth, because 
He had been always with her in the 

house, 
Thought not of Dora. 

Then there came a day 
When Allan call'd his son, and said : 

'My son, 
I married late, but I would wish to 

see 10 



9 6 



ENGLISH IDYLS AND OTHER POEMS 



My grandchild on my knees before I 

die; 
And I have set my heart upon a 

match. 
Now therefore look to Dora ; she is 

well 
To look to; thrifty too beyond her 

age. 
She is my brother's daughter ; he 

and I 
Had once hard words, and parted, and 

he died 
In foreign lands; but for his sake I 

bred 
His daughter Dora. Take her for 

your wife ; 
For I have wish'd this marriage, night 

and day, 
For many years.' But William an- 
swer' d short : 20 

* I cannot marry Dora ; by my life, 

I will not marry Dora ! ' Then the 

old man 
Was wroth, and doubled up his hands, 

and said : 

* You will not, boy ! you dare to an- 

swer thus ! 
But in my time a father's word was 

law, 
And so it shall be now for me. Look 

to it; 
Consider, William, take a month to 

think, 
And let me have an answer to my 

wish, 
Or, by the Lord that made me, you 

shall pack, 
And never more darken my doors 

again.' 30 

But William answer' d madly, bit his 

lips, 
And broke away. The more he look'd 

at her 
The less he liked her ; and his ways 

were harsh ; 
But Dora bore them meekly. Then 

before 
The month was out he left his father's 

house, 
And hired himself to work within the 

fields ; 
And half in love, half spite, he woo'd 

and wed 
A laborer's daughter, Mary Morrison. 
Then, when the bells were ringing, 

Allan call'd 



His niece and said : * My girl, I love 

you well ; 4 o 

But if you speak with him that was 

my son, 
Or change a word with her he calls 

his wife, 
My home is none of yours. My will 

is law.' 
And Dora promised, being meek. She 

thought, 
' It cannot be ; my uncle's mind will 

change ! ' 
And days went on, and there was 

born a boy 
To William ; then distresses came on 

him, 
And day by day he pass'd his father's 

gate, 
Heart-broken, and his father help'd 

him not. 
But Dora stored what little she could 

save, 50 

And sent it them by stealth, nor did 

they know 
Who sent it ; till at last a fever seized 
On William, and. in harvest time he 

died. 
Then Dora went to Mary. Mary 

sat 
And look'd with tears upon her boy, 

and thought 
Hard things of Dora. Dora came and 

said: 
' I have obey'd my uncle until now, 
And I have sinn'd, for it was all thro' 

rne 
This evil came on William at the 

first. 
But, Mary, for the sake of him that 's 

gone, 60 

And for your sake, the woman that 

he chose, 
And for this orphan, I am come to you. 
You know there has not been for 

these five years 
So full a harvest. Let me take the 

boy, 
And I will set him in my uncle's eye 
Among the wheat ; that when his 

heart is glad 
Of the full harvest, he may see the 

boy, 
And bless him for the sake of him 

that's gone.' 
And Dora took the child, and went 

her way 



DORA 



97 



Across the wheat, and sat upon a 

mound 70 

That was unsown, where many pop- 
pies grew. 
Far off the farmer came into the 

field 
And spied her not, for none of all his 

men 
Dare tell him Dora waited with the 

child ; 
And Dora would have risen and gone 

to him, 
But her heart fail'd her ; and the 

reapers reap'd, 
And the sun fell, and all the land was 

dark. 
But when the morrow came, she 

rose and took 
The child once more, and sat upon 

the mound ; 
And made a little wreath of all the 

flowers 80 

That grew about, and tied it round 

his hat 
To make him pleasing in her uncle's 

eye. 
Then when the farmer pass'd into the 

field 
He spied her, and he left his men at 

work, 
And came and said : ' Where were you 

yesterday ? 
Whose child is that ? What are you 

doing here ? ' 
So Dora cast her eyes upon the 

ground, 
And answer' d softly, 'This is Wil- 
liam's child !' 
'And did I not,' said Allan, 'did I 

not 
Forbid you, Dora V Dora said again: 
'Do with me as you will, but take 

the child, 91 

And bless him for the sake of him 

that's gone !' 
And Allan said : ' I see it is a trick 
Got up betwixt you and the woman 

there. 
I must be taught my duty, and by 

you ! 
You knew my word was law, and yet 

you dared 
To slight it. Well — for I will take 

the boy ; 
But go you hence, and never see me 

more. ' 



80 saying, he took the boy that 

cried aloud 
And struggled hard. The wreath of 

flowers fell 100 

At Dora's feet. She bow'd upon her 

hands, 
And the boy's cry came to her from 

the field 
More and more distant. She bow'd 

down her head, 
Remembering the day when first she 

came, 
And all the things that had been. 

She bow'd down 
And wept in secret ; and the reapers 

reap'd, 
And the sun fell, and all the land was 

dark. 
Then Dora went to Mary's house, 

and stood 
Upon the threshold. Mary saw the 

boy 
Was not with Dora. She broke out 

in praise no 

To God, that help'd her in her widow- 
hood. 
And Dora said : ' My uncle took the 

boy ; 
But, Mary, let me live and work with 

you : 
He says that he will never see me 

more.' 
Then answer'd Mary : ' This shall 

never be, 
That thou shouldst take my trouble 

on thyself ; 
And, now I think, he shall not have 

the boy, 
For he will teach him hardness, and 

to slight 
His mother. Therefore thou and I 

will go, 
And I will have my boy, and bring 

him home; 120 

And I will beg of him to take thee 

back. 
But if he will not take thee back 

again, 
Then thou and I will live within one 

house, 
And work for William's child, until 

he grows 
Of age to help us.' 

So the women kiss'd 
Each other, and set out, and reach'd 

the farm. 



9 8 



ENGLISH IDYLS AND OTHER POEMS 




141 1 have been to blame to blame. I have kill'd my son. 
I have kill'd him — but 1 loved him — my dear sou " ' 



The door was off the latch; they 

peep'd, and saw 

The boy sol up betwixt his grand sire's 

knees, 
Who thrust him in the hollows o\' his 

arm. 
And clapt him On the hands and on 

the cheeks, 130 

Like one that loved him ; and the Lad 

stretch'd out 

And babbled for the golden seal, that 

hung 
From Allan's watch and sparkled by 

the Are. 
Then they came in ; but when the boy 

behold 
His mother, he cried out to conic to 

her; 
And Allan set him down, and Mary 

said: 



'O father! — if you let 111c call yom 
so — 

1 never came a-begging for my- 
self, 

Or William, or this child ; but now I 
come 

For Dora; take her back, she loves 
yon well. 140 

() Sir, when William died, he died at 

peace 

With all men; for 1 ask'd him, and 

he said. 
He COUld not ever rue his marrying 

me — 

1 had been a, patient wife; but, Sir, 

he said 
That lie was wrong to cross his father 

thus. 
"God bless himi ,s he said, "and may 

he never know 



»'• t; J 



AUDLEY COURT 



99 



The troubles I have gone thro* I " 

Then he furn'd 
His face and pass'd — unhappy that I 

am ! 
But now, Sir, let me have in)' hoy, 

Tor you 
Will make him hard, and lie will learn 

to slight 150 

His father's memory; and lake Dora 

back, 

And let all this be as it was before.' 

So Mary said, and Dora hid her 
face 
By Mary. There was silence in the 

room; 
And all at onee the old man hurst in 
sobs : 
l I have been to blame — to blame. 

I have kiird my son. 

I have kill'd him — but, 1 loved him 

— my dear son. 
Hay God forgive me!— I have been 

to blame. 
Kiss me, my children.' 

Then they elunff about 

The old man's neck, and kiss'd him 

many times. e„> 

And all the man was broken with 

remorse; 

And all his love came back a hundred- 
fold ; 

And for three hours he sobb'd o'er 
William's child 

Thinking of William. 

So those four abode 
Within one house together, and as 

years 
Went, forward Mary took another 

mate ; 
But Dora lived unmarried till her 
death. 



AUDLEY COURT 

THE Bull, the Fleece arc crainm'd, 
and not a, room 
For love or money. Let us picnic 

there 

At And ley Court,' 

I spoke, while Audley feast, 
Hunun'd like a hive all round the 

narrow quay. 

To Francis, with* a basket on his 

arm, 
To Francis just alighted from the boat 



And breathing Of the sea. ' Wiih all 

my heart,' 
Said Francis. Then we shouldered 
thro' the swarm, 

And rounded by the stillness of the 

beach 

To Where the bay runs up its latest 
horn. t0 

We left the dying ebb that, faintly 
lipp'd 

The Hat, va\ granite; so by many a 
sweep 

Of meadow smooth from aftermath 

we reach'd 
The griffin guarded gates, and pass'd 

thro' all 
The pili.'ir'd dusk of sounding syca 

mores, 

And cmss'd the garden to the garden 

er's lodge, 
With all its casements bedded, and its 

walls 
And chimneys muffled in the leafy 

vine. 

There, on a slope of orchard, Fran- 
cis laid 
A damask napkin wrought with horse 

and hound. 
Brought OUt a, dusky loaf that smelt 

of home, 
And. half cut, down, a, pasty costly 

made, 

Where quail and pigeon, lark and 
leveret lay, 

Like fossils of the rock, with golden 

yolks 
Embedded and in jellied; last,, with 

these, 

A flask of cider from his father's 

vais, 
Prime, Which I knew ; and so we sat 

and eat, 

And talk'd old matters over, — who 

was dead, 
Who married, who was like to be, 
and how 

The races went, and who would pent 

the hall ; 30 

Then touch'd upon the game, how 

scarce if was 
This season ; glancing thence, dis 

cuss'd the farm, 
The four-field system, and the price 
of grain ; 

And struck UDOn the corn laws, where 
we split, 



LofC. 



IOO 



ENGLISH IDYLS AND OTHER POEMS 



And came again together on the king 
With heated faces; till he laugh'd 

aloud, 
And, while the blackbird on the pip- 
pin hung 
To hear him, clapt his hand in mine 

and sang: 
' O, who would fight and march 

and countermarch, 
Be shot for sixpence in a battle-field, 40 
And shovell'd up into some bloody- 
trench 
Where no one knows ? but let me live 

my life. 
1 0, who would cast and balance at 

a desk, 
Perch' d like a crow upon a three- 

legg'd stool, 
Till all his j uice is dried, and all his 

joints 
Are full of chalk ? but let me live my 

life. 
' Who'd serve the state? for if I 

carved my name 
Upon the cliffs that guard my native 

land, 
I might as well have traced ^it in the 

sands ; 
The sea Avastes all ; but let me live 

my life. 50 

' O, who would love ? I woo'd a 

woman once, 
But she was sharper than an eastern 

wind, 
And all my heart turn'd from her, as 

a thorn 
Turns from the sea ; but let me live 

my life.' 
He sang his song, and I replied with 

mine. 
I found it in a volume, all of songs, 
Knock'd down to me, when old Sir 

Robert's pride, 
His books — the more the pity, so I 

said — 
Came to the hammer here in March — 

and this — 
I set the words, and added names I 

knew : 60 

' Sleep, Ellen Aubrey, sleep, and 

dream of me : 
Sleep, Ellen, folded in thy sister's arm, 
And sleeping, haply dream her arm is 

mine. 
' Sleep, Ellen, folded in Emilia's 

arm ; 



Emilia, fairer than all else but thou, 
For thou art fairer than all else that is. 
' Sleep, breathing health and peace 

upon her breast ; 
Sleep, breathing love and trust against 

her lip. 
I go to-night ; I come to-morrow 

morn. 

* I go, but I return ; I would I 

were 70 

The pilot of the darkness and the 

dream. 
Sleep, Ellen Aubrey, love, and dream 

of me.' 
So sang we each to either, Francis 

Hale, 
The farmer's son, who lived across 

• the bay, 

My friend ; and I, that having where- 
withal, 

And in the fallow leisure of my life 

A roiling stone of here and every- 
where, 

Did what I would. But ere the night 
we rose 

And saunter'd home beneath a moon 
that, just 

In crescent, dimly rain'd about the 
leaf 80 

Twilights of airy silver, till we reach'd 

The limit of the hills ; and as we sank 

From rock to rock upon the glooming 
quay, 

The town was hush'd beneath us ; 
lower down 

The bay was oily calm ; the harbor- 
buoy, 

Sole star of phosphorescence in the 
calm, 

With one green sparkle ever and anon 

Dipt by itself, and we were glad at 
heart. 



WALKING TO THE MAIL 

John. I'm glad I walk'd. How 
fresh the meadows look 
Above the river, and, but a month ago, 
The whole hillside was redder than a 

fox! 
Is yon plantation where this byway 

joins 
The turnpike ? 
James. Yes. 
John. And when does this come by ? 



WALKING TO THE MAIL 



James. The mail ? At one o'clock. 
John. What is it now ? 

James. A quarter to. 
John. Whose house is that I see ? 
No, not the County Member's with 

the vane. 
Up higher with the yew-tree by it, 

and half 
A score of gables. 

James. That ? Sir Edward Head's. 
But he's abroad; the place is to be 

sold. ii 

John. O, his ! He was not broken. 

James. No, sir, he, 

Vext with a morbid devil in his blood 

That veil'd the world with jaundice, 

hid his face 
From all men, and commercing with 

himself, 
He lost the sense that handles daily 

life — 
That keeps us all in order more or 

less — 
And sick of home went overseas for 

change. 
John. And whither ? 
James. Nay, who knows? he's 

here and there. 
But let him go ; his devil goes with 

him, 20 

As well as with his tenant, Jocky 

Dawes. 
John. What's that? 
James. You saw the man — on 

Monday, was it ? — 
There by the humpback' d willow ; 

half stands up 
And bristles, half has fallen and made 

a bridge ; 
And there he caught the younker 

tickling trout — 
Caught in flagrante — what's the 

Latin word ? — 
Delicto ; but his house, for so they say, 
Was haunted with a jolly ghost, that 

shook 
The curtains, whined in lobbies, tapt 

at doors, 
And rummaged like a rat ; no servant 

stay'd. 30 

The farmer vext packs up his beds 

and chairs, 
And all his household stuff ; and with 

his boy 
Betwixt his knees, his wife upon the 

tilt, 



Sets out, and meets a friend who hails 

him, ' What ! 
You're flitting ! ' 'Yes, we're flit- 
ting,' says the ghost — 
For they had pack'd the thing among 

the beds. 
'O, well,' says he, 'you flitting with 

us too ! — 
Jack, turn the horses' heads and home 

again/ 
John. He left his wife behind ; for 

so I heard. 
James. He left her, yes. I met my 

lady once ; 4 o 

A woman like a butt, and harsh as 

crabs. 
John. O, yet but I remember, ten 

years back — 
'T is now at least ten years — and then 

she was — 
You could not light upon a sweeter 

thing ; 
A body slight and round, and like a 

pear 
In growing, modest eyes, a hand, a foot 
Lessening in perfect cadence, and a 

skin 
As clean and white as privet when it 

flowers. 
James. Ay, ay, the blossom fades, 

and they that loved 
At first like dove and dove were cat 

and dog. 50 

She was the daughter of a cottager, 
Out of her sphere. What betwixt 

shame and pride, 
New things and old, himself, and her, 

she sour'd 
To what she is ; a nature never kind ! 
Like men, like manners ; like breeds 

like, they say. 
Kind nature is the best ; those man- 
ners next 
That fit us like a nature second-hand — 
Which are indeed the manners of the 

great. 
John. But I had heard it was this 

bill that past, 
And fear of change at home, that 

drove him hence. 60 

James. That was the last drop in 

the cup of gall. 
I once was near him, when his bailiff 

brought 
A Chartist pike. You should have 

seen him wince 



102 



ENGLISH IDYLS AND OTHER POEMS 



As from a venomous thing ; he 

thought himself 
A mark for all, and shudder'd, lest a 

cry 
Should break his sleep by night, and 

his nice eyes 
Should see the raw mechanic's bloody 

thumbs 
Sweat on his blazon'd chairs. But, 

sir, you know 
That these two parties still divide the 

world — 
Of those that want, and those that 

have ; and still 70 

The same old sore breaks out from 

age to age 
With much the same result. Now I 

myself, 
A Tory to the quick, was as a boy 
Destructive, when I had not what I 

would. 
I was at school, — a college in the 

South. 
There lived a flayflint near ; we stole 

his fruit, 
His hens, his eggs ; but there was law 

for us ; 
We paid in person. He had a sow, 

sir. She, 
With meditative grunts of much con- 
tent, 
Lay great with pig, wallowing in sun 

and mud. 80 

By night we dragg'dher to the college 

tower 
From her warm bed, and up the cork- 
screw stair 
With hand and rope we haled the 

groaning sow, 
And on the leads we kept her till she 

pigg'd. 
Large range of prospect had the mother 

sow, 
And but for daily loss of one she loved 
As one by one we took them — but for 

this — 
As never sow was higher in this 

world — 
Might have been happy ; but what 

lot is pure ? 
We took them all, till she was left 

alone 90 

Upon her tower, the Niobe of swine, 
And so return'd unfarrow'd to her sty. 
John. They found you out ? 
James. Not they. 



John. Well — after all — 

What know we of the secret of a man ? 
His nerves were wrong. What ails us 

who are sound, 
That we should mimic this raw fool 

the world, 
Which charts us all in its coarse blacks 

or whites, 
As ruthless as a baby with a worm, 
As cruel as a schoolboy ere he grows 
To pity — more from ignorance than 

will. 100 

But put your best foot forward, or I 

fear 
That we shall miss the mail ; and here 

it comes 
With five at top, as quaint a four-in- 
hand 
As you shall see, — three pyebalds and 

a roan. 



EDWIN MORRIS 

OR, THE LAKE 

O me, my pleasant rambles by the 

lake, 
My sweet, wild, fresh three quarters 

of a year, 
My one oasis in the dust and drouth 
Of city life ! I was a sketcher then. 
See here, my doing: curves of moun- 
tain, bridge, 
Boat, island, ruins of a castle, built 
When men knew how to build, upon a 

rock 
With turrets lichen-gilded like a rock ; 
And here, new-comers in an ancient 

hold, 
New-comers from the Mersey, million- 
aires, 10 
Here lived the Hills — a Tudor-chim- 

ney'd bulk 
Of mellow brickwork on an isle of 

bowers. 
O me, my pleasant rambles by the 

lake 
With Edwin Morris and with Edward 

Bull 
The curate — he was fatter than his 

cure ! 
But Edwin Morris, he that knew the 

names, 
Long learned names of agaric, moss, 

and fern, 



EDWIN MORRIS 



103 




* When men knew how to build, upon a rock 
With turrets lichen-gilded like a rock ' 



Who forged a thousand theories of the 

rocks, 
Who taught me how to skate, to row, 

to swim, 
Who read me rhymes elaborately good, 
His own — I call'd him Crichton, for 

he seem'd 21 

All-perfect, nnish'd to the finger-nail. 

And once I ask'd him of his early 

life, 
And his first passion ; and he answer' d 

me, 
And well his words became him — was 

he not 
A full-ceird honeycomb of eloquence 



Stored from all flowers ? Poet -like he 

spoke : 
'My love for Nature is as old 

as I ; 
But thirty moons, one honeymoon to 

that, 
And three rich sennights more, my love 

for her. 30 

My love for Nature and my love for 

her, 
Of different ages, like twin-sisters 

grew, 
Twin-sisters differently beautiful. 
To some full music rose and sank the 

sun, 



io4 



ENGLISH IDYLS AND OTHER POEMS 



And some full music seem'd to move 

and change 
With all the varied changes of the 

dark, 
And either twilight and the day be- 
tween ; 
For daily hope fulfill'd, to rise again 
Revolving toward fulfilment, made it 

sweet 
To walk, to sit, to sleep, to wake, to 

breathe.' 4© 

Or this or something like to this he 

spoke. 
Then said the fat-faced curate Edward 

Bull: 
1 1 take it, God made the woman for 

the man, 
And for the good and increase of the 

world. 
A pretty face is well, and this is well, 
To have a dame indoors, that trims us 

up, 
And keeps us tight ; but these unreal 

ways 
Seem but the theme of writers, and 

indeed 
Worn threadbare. Man is made of 

solid stuff. 
I say, God made the woman for the 

man, 50 

And for the good and increase of the 

world.' 
1 Parson,' said I, ' you pitch the pipe 

too low. 
But I have sudden touches, and can run 
My faith beyond my practice into his ; 
Tho' if, in dancing after Letty Hill, 
I do not hear the bells upon my cap, 
I scarce have other music — yet say on. 
What should one give to light on such 

a dream ? ' 
I ask'dhim half- sardonically. 

1 Give ? 
Give all thou art,' he answer'd, and a 

light 60 

Of laughter dimpled in his swarthy 

cheek ; 
: I would have hid her needle in my 

heart, 
To save her little finger from a scratch 
No deeper than the skin ; my ears 

could hear 
Her lightest breath ; her least remark 

was worth 
The experience of the wise. I went 

and came ; 



Her voice fled always thro' the sum- 
mer land ; 
I spoke her name alone. Thrice-happy 

days ! 
The flower of each, those moments 

when we met, 
The crown of all, we met to part no 

more.' 70 

Were not his words delicious, I a 

beast 
To take them as I did ? but something 

jarr'd ; 
Whether he spoke too largely, that 

there seem'd 
A touch of something false, some self- 
conceit, 
Or over-smoothness ; howsoe'er it was, 
He scarcely hit my humor, and I 

said: 
'Friend Edwin, do not think your- 
self alone 
Of all men happy. Shall not Love to 

me, 
As in the Latin song I learnt at school, 
Sneeze out a full God-bless-you right 

and left ? 80 

But you can talk, yours is a kindly 

vein; 
I have, I think, — Heaven knows, — 

as much within ; 
Have, or should have, but for a thought 

or two, 
That like a purple beech among the 

greens 
Looks out of place. 'Tis from no 

want in her ; 
It is my shyness, or my self-dis- 
trust, 
Or something of a wayward modern 

mind 
Dissecting passion. Time will set me 

right.' 
So spoke I, knowing not the things 

that were. 
Then said the fat-faced curate, Edward 

Bull: 90 

1 God made the woman for the use 

of man, 
And for the good and increase of the 

world.' 
And I and Edwin laughed .; and now 

we paused 
About the windings of the marge to 

hear 
The soft wind blowing over meadowy 

holms 



SAINT SIMEON STYLITES 






And alders, garden-isles; and now we 
left 
clerk behind us, I and he, and ran 
By ripply shallows of the lisping lake, 
Delighted with the freshness and the 
ind. 
But when the bracken rusted on 
their era s 100 

rait had wither'd, nipt to deal 
hirn 
That was a god, and is a lawyer's clerk, 
Cupid of our ra 
met ; one hour I had. no 
more : 
sent a note, the seal an Ette vous 

The close. 'YourLetty, only yours;' 

and this 
Thrice underscored. The friendly 

of morn 
Clung to the lake. I b 
My craft aground, and heard with 

heating heart 
The sweet-gale rustle round 

ing keel ; 
And < pt, and up I crept. She- 

moved. 
Like Proserpine in Enna, gathering 

flower-. 
Then low and sweet I wh is tied thrice ; 

and she. 
She turn'd, we closed, v 

faith, I breathed 

ousin 

Upon us and departed. : L 

ied, 
'O, leave me V ' Ne^ 

here 
I brave the worst ; ' and whil 
like fools 
tracing, all 
And poodle- yelTd within,, ai. 

Trustees and aunts and uncle - 
with him ! 

rill'd the 1 nning 

chorus ; ' Jfirn ! ' 
I choked. Again they -hriek'd the 
burthen, Hirn V 
in with hands of wild rejection. 

•' Go : — 

Girl, get you in ! ' She went — and in 

one moi 
They wedded her to sixty thousand 

pom 



To lands in Kent and messuages in 

York, 
And slight Sir Robert with his watery 
aile 

And educated whisker. But for me, 
They set an ancient creditor to work: 
ms I broke a close with force and 

arm 131 

There car;. ,ken from 

king 

eet the sheriff, need 
I read, and fled by night, and 1: 

turn'd ; 
Tier taper glimmered in the lake bel 
I turn'd once more 

the storm; 
So left the place, left Edwin, qoi 

seen 
Him since, nor heard of her. nor cared 

to hear. 
Nor cared to hear) perhaps: yet 

long 
I have pardon'd litl ; not in- 

deed,. 140 

It mav be, for her own dear sake, but 

this,— 

S a part of tfa days 

tO 7!. 

For in if and drouth of London 

life 
She d 

lak 
While the prime swallow 

then 
While the gold-lily blows, and 

head 
The light cloud smoulders on the 

SAINT SIMEON STYLITBfi 

Ai:i bo' I be tl nankind, 

From scalp to sole one slough and 

Unfit for earth, unfit for I 
mei 
troops of devils, mad with 
ph<-.\ 
I will 

hold 
Of saintdorn. and I mm, 

and 
Battering >ven with 

■ ms of pra 

away my 
sin I " 



io6 



ENGLISH IDYLS AND OTHER POEMS 



Let this avail, just, dreadful, mighty 

God, 
This not be all in vain, that thrice ten 

years, 10 

Thrice multiplied by superhuman 

pangs, 
In hungers and in thirsts, fevers and 

cold, 
In coughs, aches, stitches, ulcerous 

throes and cramps, 
A sign betwixt the meadow and the 

cloud, 
Patient on this tall pillar I have 

borne 
Rain, wind, frost, heat, hail, damp, 

and sleet, and snow ; 
And I had hoped that ere this period 

closed 
Thou wouidst have caught me up into 

thy rest, 
Denying not these weather-beaten 

limbs 
The meed of saints, the white robe and 

the palm. 20 

O, take the meaning, Lord ! I do 

not breathe, 
Not whisper, any murmur of com- 
plaint. 
Pain heap'd ten-hundred-fold to this, 

were still 
Less burthen, by ten-hundred-fold, to 

bear, 
Than were those lead-like tons of sin 

that crush' d 
My spirit flat before thee. 

O Lord, Lord, 
Thou knowest I bore this better at the 

first, 
For I was strong and hale of body 

then ; 
And tho' my teeth, which now are 

dropt away, 
Would chatter with the cold, and all 

my beard 30 

Was tagg'd with icy fringes in the 

moon, 
I drown' d the whoopings of the owl 

with sound 
Of pious hymns and psalms, and some- 
times saw 
An angel stand and watch me, as I 

sang. 
Now am I feeble grown ; my end draws 

nigh. 
I hope my end draws nigh ; half deaf 

I am, 



So that I scarce can hear the people 

hum 
About the column's base, and almost 

blind, 
And scarce can recognize the fields I 

know ; 
And both my thighs are rotted with 

the dew ; 4 o 

Yet cease I not to clamor and to cry, 
While my stiff spine can hold my weary 

head, 
Till all my limbs drop piecemeal from 

the stone, 
Have mercy, mercy ! take away my 

sin ! 
O Jesus, if thou wilt not save my 

soul, 
Who may be saved ? who is it may be 

saved ? 
Who may be made a saint if I fail 

here ? 
Show me the man hath suffer' d more 

than I. 
For did not all thy martyrs die one 

death ? 
For either they were stoned, or cruci- 
fied, 50 
Or burn'd in fire, or boil'd in oil, or 

sawn 
In twain beneath the ribs ; but I die 

here 
To-day, and whole years long, a life 

of death. 
Bear witness, if I could have found a 

way — 
And needfully I sifted all my 

thought — 
More slowly-painful to subdue this 

home 
Of sin, my flesh, which I despise and 

hate, 

I had not stinted practice, O my God ! 

For not alone this pillar-punishment, 

Not this alone I bore ; but while I lived 

In the white convent down the valley 

there, 61 

For many weeks about my loins I wore 
The rope that haled the buckets from 

the well, 
Twisted as tight as I could knot the 

noose, 
And spake not of it to a single soul, 
Until the ulcer, eating thro' my skin, 
Betray'd my secret penance, so that all 
My brethren mar veil' d greatly. More 

than this 



SAINT SIMEON STYLITES 



107 



I bore, whereof, O God, thou knowest 
all. 
Three winters, that my soul might 
grow to thee, 70 

I lived up there on yonder mountain- 
side. 

My right leg chain' d into the crag, I lay 

Pent in a roofless close of ragged 
stones ; 

Inswathed sometimes in wandering 
mist, and twice 

Black' d with thy branding thunder, 
and sometimes 

Sucking the damps for drink, and eat- 
ing not, 

Except the spare chance- gift of those 
that came 

To touch my body and be heal'd, and 
live. 

And they say then that I work'd mira- 
cles, 

Whereof my fame is loud amongst 
mankind, 80 

Cured lameness, palsies, cancers. 
Thou, O God, 

Knowest alone whether this was or no. 

Have mercy, mercy ! cover all my sin ! 
Then, that I might be more alone 
with thee, 

Three years I lived upon a pillar, high 

Six cubits, and three years on one of 
twelve ; 

And twice three years I crouch' d on 
one that rose 

Twenty by measure ; last of all, I grew 

Twice ten long weary, weary years to 
this, 

That numbers forty cubits from the 
soil. 90 

I think that I have borne as much 
as this — 

Or else I dream — and for so long a 
time, 

If I may measure time by yon slow 
light, 

And this high dial, which my sorrow 
crowns — 

So much — even so. 

And yet I know not well, 

For that the evil ones come here, and 
say, 

1 Fall down, O Simeon ; thou hast suf- 
fer' d long 

For ages and for ages ! ' then they prate 

Of penances I cannot have gone thro', 

Perplexing me with lies ; and oft I fall, 



Maybe for months, in such blind leth- 
argies joi 

That Heaven, and Earth, and Time 
are choked. 

But yet 

Bethink thee, Lord, while thou and all 
the saints 

Enjoy themselves in heaven, and men 
on earth 

House in the shade of comfortable 
roofs, 

Sit with their wives by fires, eat whole- 
some food, 

And wear warm clothes, and even 
beasts have stalls, 

I, 'tween the spring and downfall of 
the light, 

Bow down one thousand and two hun- 
dred times, 

To Christ, the Virgin Mother, and the 
saints; no 

Or in the night, after a little sleep, 

I wake ; the chill stars sparkle ; I am 
wet 

With drenching dews, or stiff with 
crackling frost. 

I wear an undress' d goatskin on my 
back; 

A grazing iron collar grinds my neck ; 

And in my weak, lean arms I lift the 
cross, 

And strive and wrestle with thee till 
I die. 

O, mercy, mercy ! wash away my 
sin ! 
O Lord, thou knowest what a man 
I am ; 

A sinful man, conceived and born in 
sin. 120 

'T is their own doing ; this is none of 
mine ; 

Lay it not to me. Am I to blame for 
this, 

That here come those that worship 
me? Ha! ha! 

They think that I am somewhat. 
What am I ? 

The silly people take me for a saint, 

And bring me offerings of fruit and 
flowers ; 

And I, in truth — thou wilt bear wit- 
ness here — 

Have all in all endured as much, and 
more 

Than many just and holy men, whose 
names 



io8 



ENGLISH IDYLS AND OTHER POEMS 



Are register'd and calendar' d for 

saints. 130 

Good people, you do ill to kneel to 

me. 
What is it I can have done to merit 

this? 
I am a sinner viler than you all. 
It may be I have wrought some mira- 
cles, 
And cured some halt and maim'd ; 

but what of that ? 
It may be no one, even among the 

saints, 
May match his pains with mine ; but 

what of that ? 
Yet do not rise ; for you may look on 

me, 
And in your looking you may kneel 

to God. 
Speak! is there any of you halt or 

maim'd ? 140 

I think you know I have some power 

with Heaven 
From my long penance ; let him 

speak his wish. 
Yes, I can heal him. Power goes 

forth from me. 
They say that they are heal'd. Ah, 

hark ! they shout 
1 Saint Simeon Stylites.' Why, if so, 
God reaps a harvest in me. O my 

soul, 
God reaps a harvest in thee ! If this be, 
Can I work miracles and not be saved? 
This is not told of any. They were 

saints. 
It cannot be but that I shall be saved, 
Yea, crown'd a saint. They shout, 

'Behold a saint! ' 151 

And lower voices saint me from above. 
Courage, Saint Simeon ! This dull 

chrysalis 
Cracks into shining wings, and hope 

ere death 
Spreads more and more and more, 

that God hath now 
Sponged and made blank of crimef ill 

record all 
My mortal archives. 

O my sons, my sons, 
I, Simeon of the pillar, by surname 
Stylites, among men ; I, Simeon, 
The watcher on the column till the 

end ; 160 

I, Simeon, whose brain the sunshine 

bakes ; 



I, whose bald brows in silent hours 

become 
Unnaturally hoar with rime, do now 
From my high nest of penance here 

proclaim 
That Pontius and Iscariot by my side 
Show'd like fair seraphs. On the 

coals I lay, 
A vessel full of sin ; all hell beneath 
Made me boil over. Devils pluck'd 

my sleeve, 
Abaddon and Asmodeus caught at me. 
I smote them with the cross; they 

swarm'd again. 170 

In bed like monstrous apes they 

crush'd my chest ; 
They flapp'd my light out as I read ; 

I saw 
Their faces grow between me and my 

book; 
With coltlike whinny and with hog- 
gish whine 
They burst my prayer. Yet this way 

was left, 
And by this way I 'scaped them. 

Mortify 
Your flesh, like me, with scourges 

and with thorns ; 
Smite, shrink not, spare not. If it 

may be, fast 
Whole Lents, and pray. I hardly, 

with slow steps, 
With slow, faint steps, and much ex- 
ceeding pain, 180 
Have scrambled past those pits of fire, 

that still 
Sing in mine ears. But yield not me 

the praise ; 
God only thro' his bounty hath 

thought lit, 
Among the powers and princes of this 

world, 
To make me an example to mankind, 
Which few can reach to. Yet I do 

not say 
But that a time may come — yea, 

even now, 
Now, now, his footsteps smite the 

threshold stairs 
Of life — I say, that time is at the 

doors 
When you may worship me without 

reproach ; 190 

For I will leave my relics in your land, 
And you may carve a shrine about 

my dust, 



THE TALKING OAK 



109 



And burn a fragrant lamp before my 

bones, 
When I am gather' d to the glorious 

saints. 
While I spake then, a sting of 

shrewdest pain 
Ran shrivelling thro' me, and a cloud- 
like change, 
In passing, with a grosser film made 

thick 
These heavy, horny eyes. The end ! 

the end ! 
Surely the end! What's here? a 

shape, a shade, 
A flash of light. Is that the angel 

there 200 

That holds a crown? Come, blessed 

brother, come! 
I know thy glittering face. I waited 

long ; 
My brows are ready. What ! deny it 

now ? 
Nay, draw, draw, draw nigh. So I 

clutch it. Christ ! 
'T is gone ; 't is here again ; the crown ! 

the crown ! 
So now 'tis fitted on and grows to me, 
And from it melt the dews of Paradise, 
Sweet ! sweet ! spikenard, and balm, 

and frankincense. 
Ah ! let me not be fooFd, sweet saints ; 

I trust 
That I am whole, and clean, and meet 

for Heaven. 210 

Speak, if there be a priest, a man 

of God, 
Among you there, and let him pre- 
sently 
Approach, and lean a ladder on the 

shaft, 
And climbing up into my airy home, 
Deliver me the blessed sacrament ; 
For by the warning of the Holy Ghost, 
I prophesy that I shall die to-night, 
A quarter before twelve. 

But thou, O Lord, 
Aid all this foolish people; let them 

take 
Example, pattern ; lead them to thy 

light. 220 



THE TALKING OAK 

Once more the gate behind me falls ; 
Once more before my face 



I see the moulder'd Abbey-walls. 
That stand within the chace. 

Beyond the lodge the city lies, 
Beneath its drift of smoke ; 

And ah ! with what delighted eyes 
I turn to yonder oak. 

For when my passion first began, 
Ere that which in me burn'd, 10 

The love that makes me thrice a man, 
Could hope itself return'd, 

To yonder oak within the field 

I spoke without restraint, 
And with a larger faith appeal'd 

Than Papist unto Saint. 

For oft I talk'd with him apart, 
And told him of my choice, 

Until he plagiarized a heart, 
And answer'd with a voice. 20 

Tho' what he whisper'd under heaven 
None else could understand, 

I found him garrulously given, 
A babbler in the land. 

But since I heard him make reply 

Is many a weary hour ; 
'T were well to question him, and try 

If yet he keeps the power. 

Hail, hidden to the knees in fern, 
Broad Oak of Sumner-chace, 30 

Whose topmost branches can discern 
The roofs of Sumner- place ! 

Say thou, whereon I carved her name, 

If ever maid or spouse, 
As fair as my Olivia, came 

To rest beneath thy boughs. 

' O Walter, I have shelter'd here 

Whatever maiden grace 
The good old summers, year by year, 

Made ripe in Sumner-chace ; 40 

'Old summers, when the monk was 
fat, 

And, issuing shorn and sleek, 
Would twist his girdle tight, and pat 

The girls upon the cheek, 

'Ere yet, in scorn of Peter's-pence, 
And number'd bead, and shrift, 



no 



ENGLISH IDYLS AND OTHER POEMS 



Bluff Harry broke into the spence 
And turn'd the cowls adrift. 

' And I have seen some score of those 
Fresh faces that would thrive 50 

When his man-minded offset rose 
To chase the deer at five ; 

'And all that from the town would 
stroll, 

Till that wild wind made work 
In which the gloomy brewer's soul 

Went by me, like a stork ; 

' The slight she-slips of loyal blood, 
And others, passing praise, 

Strait-laced, but all-too-full in bud 
For puritanic stays. 6o 

1 And I have shadow'd many a group 
Of beauties that were born 



In teacup-times of hood and hoop, 
Or while the patch was worn ; 

' And, leg and arm with love-knots gay, 
About me leap' d and laugh'd 

The modish Cupid of the day, 
And shrill' d his tinsel shaft. 

' I swear — and else may insects prick 
Each leaf into a gall ! — 7° 

This girl, for whom your heart is sick, 
Is three times worth them all ; 

' For those and theirs, by Nature' slaw, 

Have faded long ago ; 
But in these latter springs I saw 

Your own Olivia blow, 

'From when she gamboll'd on the 
greens 
A baby-germ, to when 




'And I have shadow'd many a group 

Of beauties that were born 
In teacup-times of hood and hoop, 
Or while the patch was worn ' 



THE TALKING OAK 



m 



The maiden blossoms of her teens 
Could number five from ten. 80 

' 1 swear, by leaf, and wind, and rain — 
And hear me with thine ears — 

That, tho' I circle in the grain 
Five hundred rings of years, 

' Yet, since I first could cast a shade, 

Did never creature pass 
So slightly, musically made, 

So light upon the grass ; 



4 For as to fairies, that will flit 
To make the greensward fresh, 

I hold them exquisitely knit, 
But far too spare of flesh.' 



90 



O, hide thy knotted knees in fern, 

And overlook the chace, 
And from thy topmost branch discern 

The roofs of Sumner-place ! 

But thou, whereon I carved her name, 
That oft hast heard my vows, 

Declare when last Olivia came 

To sport beneath thy boughs. 100 

4 O, yesterday, you know, the fair 

Was hold en at the town ; 
Her father left his good arm-chair, 

And rode his hunter down. 

4 And with him Albert came on his. 

I look'd at him with joy ; 
As cowslip unto oxlip is, 

So seems she to the boy. 

' An hour had past — and, sitting 
straight 

Within the lo w- wheel' d chaise, no 
Her mother trundled to the gate 

Behind the dappled grays. 

' But as for her, she staid at home, 

And on the roof she went, 
And down the way you used to come, 

She look'd with discontent. 

' She left the novel half-uncut 

Upon the rosewood shelf ; 
She left the new piano shut ; 

She could not please herself. 120 

* Then ran she, gamesome as the colt, 
And livelier than a lark 



She sent her voice thro' all the holt 
Before her, and the park. 

' A light wind chased her on the wing, 
And in the chase grew wild, 

As close as might be would he cling 
About the darling child ; 

' But light as any wind that blows 
So fleetly did she stir, 130 

The flower she touch' d on dipt and 
rose, 
And turn'd to look at her. 

'And here she came, and round me 
play'd, 

And sang to me the whole 
Of those three stanzas that you made 

About my " giant bole ; " 

' And in a fit of frolic mirth 
She strove to span my waist. 

Alas ! I was so broad of girth, 

I could not be embraced. 140 

' I wish'd myself the fair young beech 
That here beside me stands, 

That round me, clasping each in each, 
She might have lock'd her hands. 

'Yet seem'd the pressure thrice as 
sweet 

As woodbine's fragile hold, 
Or when I feel about my feet 

The berried briony fold/ 

O, muffle round thy knees with fern, 
And shadow Sumner-chace ! 150 

Long may thy topmost branch discern 
The roofs of Sumner-place ! 

But tell me, did she read the name 

I carved with many vows 
When last with throbbing heart I came 

To rest beneath thy boughs ? 

' O, yes, she wander'd round and round 
These knotted knees of mine, 

And found, and kiss'd the name she 
found, 
And sweetly murmur'd thine. 160 

' A teardrop trembled from its source, 
And down my surface crept. 

My sense of touch is something coarse, 
But I believe she wept. 



112 



ENGLISH IDYLS AND OTHER POEMS 



'Then flush' d her cheek with rosy 
light, 

She glanced across the plain, 
But not a creature was in sight ; 

She kiss'd me once again. 

1 Her kisses were so close and kind 
That, trust me on my word, 170 

Hard wood I am, and wrinkled rind, 
But yet my sap was stirr'd ; 

* And even into my inmost ring 

A pleasure I discern' d, 
Like those blind motions of the spring 

That show the year is turn'd. 

1 Thrice-happy he that may caress 
The ringlet's waving balm — 

The cushions of whose touch may press 
The maiden's tender palm. 180 

' 1, rooted here among the groves, 

But languidly adjust 
My vapid vegetable loves 

With anthers and with dust ; 

'For ah ! my friend, the days were brief 

Whereof the poets talk, 
When that which breathes within the 
leaf 

Could slip its bark and walk. 

'But could I, as in times foregone, 
From spray and branch and stem 190 

Have suck'd and gather' d into one 
The life that spreads in them, 

' She had not found me so remiss ; 

But lightly issuing thro', 
I would have paid her kiss for kiss, 

With usury thereto.' 

O, flourish high, with leafy towers, 

And overlook the lea ! 
Pursue thy loves among the bowers, 

But leave thou mine to me. 200 

O, flourish, hidden deep in fern, 

Old oak, I love thee well ! 
A thousand thanks for what I learn 

And what remains to tell. 

"T is little more : the day was warm ; 

At last, tired out with play, 
She sank her head upon her arm 

And at my feet she lay. 



' Her eyelids dropp'd their silken eaves. 

I breathed upon her eyes 210 

Thro' all the summer of my leaves 

A welcome mix'd with sighs. 

1 1 took the swarming sound of life — 
The music from the town — 

The murmurs of the drum and fife, 
And lull'd them in my own. 

' Sometimes I let a sunbeam slip, 

To light her shaded eye ; 
A second flutter' d round her lip 

Like a golden butterfly ; 220 

' A third would glimmer on her neck 
To make the necklace shine ; 

Another slid, a sunny fleck, 
From head to ankle fine. 

'Then close and dark my arms I 
spread, 

And shadow'd all her rest — 
Dropt dews upon her golden head, 

An acorn in her breast. 

' But in a pet she started up, 

And pluck'd it out, and drew 230 
My little oakling from the cup, 

And flung him in the dew. 

' And yet it was a graceful gift — 

I felt a pang within 
As when I see the woodman lift 

His axe to slay my kin. 

' I shook him down because he was 

The finest on the tree. 
He lies beside thee on the grass. 

O, kiss him once for me ! 240 

' O, kiss him twice and thrice for me, 

That have no lips to kiss ! 
For never yet was oak on lea 

Shall grow so fair as this. ' 

Step deeper yet in herb and fern, 
Look further thro' the chace, 

Spread upward till thy boughs dis- 
cern 
The front of Sumner-place. 

This fruit of thine by Love is blest, 
That but a moment lay 250 

Where fairer fruit of Love may rest 
Some happy future day. 



THE TALKING OAK 



IJ 3 




' She, Dryad-like, shall wear 
Alternate leaf and acorn-ball ' 



I kiss it twice, I kiss it thrice, 
The warmth it thence shall win 

To riper life may magnetize 
The baby -oak within. 

But thou, while kingdoms overset, 
Or lapse from hand to hand, 

Thy leaf shall never fail, nor yet 
Thine acorn in the land. 260 

May never saw dismember thee, 
Nor wielded axe disjoint, 

That art the fairest-spoken tree 
From here to Lizard-point. 

O, rock upon thy towery top 
All throats that gurgle sweet ! 

All starry culmination drop 
Balm-dews to bathe thy feet ! 



All grass of silky feather grow — 
And while he sinks or swells 270 

The full south-breeze around thee blow 
The sound of minster bells ! 

The fat earth feed thy branchy root, 
That under deeply strikes ! 

The northern morning o'er thee shoot, 
High up, in silver spikes ! 

Nor ever lightning char thy grain, 

But, rolling as in sleep, 
Low thunders bring the mellow rain, 

That makes thee broad and deep! 280 

And hear me swear a solemn oath, 

That only by thy side 
Will I to Olive plight my troth, 

And gain her for my bride. 



ii4 



ENGLISH IDYLS AND OTHER POEMS 



And when my marriage morn may fall, 
She, Dryad-like, shall wear 

Alternate leaf and acorn-ball 
In wreath about her hair. 

And I will work in prose and rhyme, 
And praise thee more in both 290 

Than bard has honor' d beech or lime, 
Or that Thessalian growth 

In which the swarthy ringdove sat, 
And mystic sentence spoke ; 

And more than England honors that, 
Thy famous brother-oak, 

Wherein the younger Charles abode 
Till all the paths were dim, 

And far below the Roundhead rode, 
And humm'd a surly hymn. 300 



LOVE AND DUTY 

Of love that never found his earthly 
close, 

What sequel ? Streaming eyes and 
breaking hearts ? 

Or all the same as if he had not been ? 
Not so. Shall Error in the round 
of time 

Still father Truth ? O, shall the brag- 
gart shout 

For some blind glimpse of freedom 
work itself 

Thro' madness, hated by the wise, to 
law, 

System, and empire ? Sin itself be 
found 

The cloudy porch oft opening on the 
sun ? 

And only he, this wonder, dead, be- 
come 10 

Mere highway dust ? or year by year 
alone 

Sit brooding in the ruins of a life, 

Nightmare of youth, the spectre of 
himself ? 
If this were thus, if this, indeed, 
were all, 

Better the narrow brain, the stony 
heart, 

The staring eye glazed o'er with sap- 
less days, 

The long mechanic pacings to and fro, 

The set gray life, and apathetic end. 

But am I not the nobler thro' thy love ? 



O, three times less unworthy ! like- 
wise thou 20 
Art more thro' Love, and greater than 

thy years, 
The sun will run his orbit, and the 

moon 
Her circle. Wait, and Love himself 

will bring 
The drooping flower of knowledge 

changed to fruit 
Of wisdom. Wait ; my faith is large 

in Time, 
And that which shapes it to some per- 
fect end. 
Will some one say, Then why not 

ill for good ? 
Why took ye not your pastime ? To 

that man 
My work . shall answer, since I knew 

the right 
And did it ; for a man is not as God, 30 
But then most Godlike being most a 

man. — 
So let me think 'tis well for thee and 

me — 
Ill-fated that I am, what lot is mine 
Whose foresight preaches peace, my 

heart so slow 
To feel it ! For how hard it seem'd 

to me, 
When eyes, love-languid thro' half 

tears, would dwell 
One earnest, earnest moment upon 

mine, 
Then not to dare to see ! when thy 

low voice, 
Faltering, would break its syllables, 

to keep 
My own full- tuned, — hold passion in 

a leash, 40 

And not leap forth and fall about thy 

neck, 
And on thy bosom — deep desired re- 
lief ! — 
Rain out the heavy mist of tears, that 

weigh' d 
Upon my brain, my senses, and my 

soul ! 
For Love himself took part against 

himself 
To warn us off, and Duty loved of 

Love — 
O, this world's curse — beloved but 

hated — came 
Like Death betwixt thy dear embrace 

and mine, 



THE GOLDEN YEAR 



ir 5 



And crying, ' Who is this ? behold 

thy bride/ 
She pushed me from thee. 

If the sense is hard 
To alien ears, I did not speak to 

these — 51 

No, not to thee, but to thyself in me. 
Hard is my doom and thine ; thou 

knowest it all. 
Could Love part thus ? was it not 

well to speak, 
To have spoken once ? It could not 

but be well. 
The slow sweet hours that bring us 

all things good, 
The slow sad hours that bring us all 

things ill, 
And all good things from evil, brought 

the night 
In which we sat together and alone, 
And to the want that hollow' d all the 

heart 60 

Gave utterance by the yearning of an 

eye, 
That burn'd upon its object thro' 

such tears 
As flow but once a life. 

The trance gave way 
To those caresses, when a hundred 

times 
In that last kiss, which never was the 

last, 
Farewell, like endless welcome, lived 

and died. 
Then follow'd counsel, comfort, and 

the words 
That make a man feel strong in speak- 
ing truth ; 
Till now the dark was worn, and over- 
head 
The lights of sunset and of sunrise 

mix'd 70 

In that brief night, the summer night, 

that paused 
Among her stars to hear us, stars that 

hung 
Love-charm'd to listen ; all the wheels 

of Time 
Spun round in station, but the end 

had come. 
O, then, like those who clench their 

nerves to rush 
Upon their dissolution, we two rose, 
There— closing like an individual 

life — 
In one blind cry of passion and of pain, 



Like bitter accusation even to death, 
Caught up the whole of love and utter'd 

it, 80 

And bade adieu for ever. 

Live — yet live — 
Shall sharpest pathos blight us, know- 
ing all 
Life needs for life is possible to 

will? — 
Live happy ; tend thy flowers; be 

tended by 
My blessing ! Should my Shadow 

cross thy thoughts 
Too sadly for their peace, remand it 

thou 
For calmer hours to Memory's darkest 

hold, 
If not to be forgotten — not at once — 
Not all forgotten. Should it cross thy 

dreams, 
O, might it come like one that looks 

content, 90 

With quiet eyes unfaithful to the truth, 
And point thee forward to a distant 

light, 
Or seem to lift a burthen from thy 

heart 
And leave thee freer, till thou wake 

refresh' d 
Then when the first low matin-chirp 

hath grown 
Full quire, and morning driven her 

plow of pearl 
Far furrowing into light the mounded 

rack, 
Beyond the fair green field and eastern 

sea. 



THE GOLDEN YEAR 

Well, you shall have that song which 
Leonard wrote : 

It was last summer on a tour in Wales. 

Old James was with me ; we that day 
had been 

Up Snowdon ; and I wish'd for Leon- 
ard there, 

And found him in Llanberis. Then 
we crost 

Between the lakes, and clamber'd half- 
way up 

The counter side ; and that same song 
of his 

He told me, for I banterd him and 
swore 



n6 



ENGLISH IDYLS AND OTHER POEMS 



They said he lived shut up within him- 
self, 
A tongue-tied poet in the feverous 

days 10 

That, setting the how much before the 

hoic, 
Cry, like the daughters of the horse- 
leech, 'Give, 
Cram us with all/ but count not me 

the herd ! 
To which ' They call me what they 

will,' he said : 
'But I was born too late; the fair 

new forms, 
That float about the threshold of an 

age, 
Like truths of Science waiting to be 

caught — 
Catch me who can, and make the 

catcher crown'd — 
Are taken by the forelock. Let it 

be. 
But if you care indeed to listen, hear 20 
These measured words, my work of 

yester-morn : 
' We sleep and wake and sleep, but 

all things move ; 
The sun flies forward to his brother 

sun; 
The dark earth follows wheel'd in her 

ellipse ; 
And human things returning on them- 
selves 
Move onward, leading up the golden 

year. 
' Ah ! tho' the times when some new 

thought can bud 
Are but as poets' seasons when they 

flower, 
Yet seas that daily gain upon the shore 
Have ebb and flow conditioning their 

march, 30 

And slow and sure comes up the 

golden year ; 
1 When wealth no more shall rest in 

mounded heaps, 
But smit with freer light shall slowly 

melt 
In many streams to fatten lower lands, 
And light shall spread, and man be 

liker man 
Thro' all the season of the golden year. 
1 Shall eagles not be eagles ? wrens 

be wrens ? 
If all the world were falcons, what of 

that? 



The wonder of the eagle were the less, 
But he not less the eagle. Happy 

days 40 

Roll onward, leading up the golden 

year. 
'Fly, happy, happy sails, and bear 

the Press ; 
Fly happy with the mission of the 

Cross ; 
Knit land to land, and blowing haven- 
ward 
With silks, and fruits, and spices, clear 

of toll, 
Enrich the markets of the golden year. 
' But we grow old. Ah ! when shall 

all men's good 
Be each man's rule, and universal 

Peace 
Lie like a shaft of light across the 

land, 
And like a lane of beams athwart the 

sea, 50 

Thro' all the circle of the golden year ? ' 
Thus far he flow'd, and ended ; where- 
upon 
' Ah, folly ! ' in mimic cadence answer'd 

James — 
' Ah, folly ! for it lies so far away, 
Not in our time, nor in our children's 

time, 
'T is like the second world to us that 

live ; 
' T were all as one to fix our hopes on 

heaven 
As on this vision of the golden year.' 
With that he struck his staff against 

the rocks 
And broke it, — James, — you know 

him, — old, but full 60 

Of force and choler, and firm upon his 

feet, 
And like an oaken stock in winter 

woods, 
O'erflourish'd with the hoary clematis; 
Then added, all in heat : 

'What stuff is this! 
Old writers push'd the happy season 

back, — 
The more fools they, — we forward ; 

dreamers both — 
You most, that, in an age when every 

hour 
Must sweat her sixty minutes to the 

death, 
Live on, God love us, as if the seeds- 
man, rapt 



ULYSSES 



117 



Upon the teeming harvest, should not 

plunge 70 

His hand into the bag ; but well I 

know 
That unto him who works, and feels 

he works, 
This same grand year is ever at the 

doors. ' 
He spoke ; and, high above, I heard 

them blast 
The steep slate-quarry, and the great 

echo flap 
And buffet round the hills, from bluff 

to bluff. 

ULYSSES 

It little profits that an idle king, 
By this still hearth, among these bar- 
ren crags, 



Match'd with an aged wife, I mete 

and dole 
Unequal laws unto a savage race, 
That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and 

know not me. 
I cannot rest from travel ; I will drink 
Life to the lees. All times I have 

enjoy'd 
Greatly, have suffer'd greatly, both 

with those 
That loved me, and alone ; on shore, 

and when 
Thro' scudding drifts the rainy 

Hyades 10 

Yext the dim sea. I am become a 

name; 
For always roaming with a hungry 

heart 
Much have I seen and known, — cities 

of men 




' There lies the port ; the vessel puffs her sail ; 
There gloom the dark, broad seas ; 



n8 



ENGLISH IDYLS AND OTHER POEMS 



And manners, climates, councils, gov- 
ernments, 
Myself not least, but honor'd of them 

all,— 
And drunk delight of battle with my 

peers, 
Far on the ringing plains of windy 

Troy. 
I am a part of all that I have met ; 
Yet all experience is an arch where- 

thro' 
Gleams that untravell'd world whose 

margin fades 20 

For ever and for ever when I move. 
How dull it is to pause, to make an 

end, 
To rust unburnish'd, not to shine in 

use ! 
As tho' to breathe were life ! Life 

piled on life 
Were all too little, and of one to 

me 
Little remains ; but every hour is 

saved 
From that eternal silence, something 

more, 
A bringer of new things ; and vile it 

were 
For some three suns to store and hoard 

myself, 
And this gray spirit yearning in 

desire 30 

To follow knowledge like a sinking 

star, 
Beyond the utmost bound of human 

thought. 
This is my son, mine own Telema- 

chus, ■ 

To whom I leave the sceptre and the 

isle, — 
Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfil 
This labor, by slow prudence to make 

mild 
A rugged people, and thro' soft de- 
grees 
Subdue them to the useful and the 

good. 
Most blameless is he, centred in the 

sphere 
Of common duties, decent not to fail 40 
In offices of tenderness, and pay 
Meet adoration to my household gods, 
When I am gone. He works his work, 

I mine. 
There lies the port ; the vessel puffs 

her sail ; 



There glQom the dark, broad seas. 

My mariners, 
Souls that have toil'd, and wrought, 

and thought with me, — 
That ever with a frolic welcome took 
The thunder and the sunshine, and 

opposed 
Free hearts, free foreheads, — you and 

I are old ; 
Old age hath yet his honor and his 

toil. 50 

Death closes all ; but something ere 

the end, 
Some work of noble note, may yet be 

done, 
Not unbecoming men that strove with 

Gods. 
The lights begin to twinkle from the 

rocks ; 
The long day wanes ; the slow moon 

climbs ; the deep 
Moans round with many voices. 

Come, my friends. 
'T is not too late to seek a newer 

world. 
Push off, and sitting well in order 

smite 
The sounding furrows; for my pur- 
pose holds 
To sail beyond the sunset, and the 

baths 60 

Of all the western stars, until I die. 
It may be that the gulfs will wash us 

down ; 
It may be we shall touch the Happy 

Isles, 
And see the great Achilles, whom we 

knew. 
Tho' much is taken, much abides ; 

and tho' 
We are not now that strength which 

in old days 
Moved earth and heaven, that which 

we are, we are, — 
One equal temper of heroic hearts, 
Made weak by time and fate, but 

strong in will 
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to 

yield. 70 

TITHONUS 

The woods decay, the woods decay 

and fall, 
The vapors weep their burthen to the 

ground, 



TITHONUS 



119 



Man comes and tills the field and lies 

beneath, 
And after many a summer dies the 

swan. 
Me only cruel immortality 
Consumes; I wither slowly in thine 

arms, 
Here at the quiet limit of the world, 
A white-hair' d shadow roaming like a 

dream 
The ever-silent spaces of the East, 
Far- folded mists, and gleaming halls 

of morn. 10 

Alas ! for this gray shadow, once a 

man — 
So glorious in his beauty and thy 

choice, 
Who madest him thy chosen, that he 

seem'd 
To his great heart none other than a 

God! 
I ask'd thee, ' Give me immortality . ' 
Then didst thou grant mine .asking 

with a smile, 
Like wealthy men who care not how 

they give. 
But thy strong Hours indignant work'd 

their wills, 
And beat me down and marr'd and 

wasted me, 
And tho' they could not end me, left 

me maim'd 20 

To dwell in presence of immortal 

youth, 
Immortal age beside immortal youth, 
And all I was in ashes. Can thy 

love, 
Thy beauty, make amends, tho' even 

now, 
Close over us, the silver star, thy 

guide, 
Shines in those tremulous eyes that 

fill with tears 
To hear me ? Let me go ; take back 

thy gift. 
Why should a man desire in any way 
To vary from the kindly race of men, 
Or pass beyond the goal of ordinance 30 
Where all should pause, as is most 

meet for all ? 
A soft air fans the cloud apart ; 

there comes 
A glimpse of that dark world where I 

was born. 
Once more the old mysterious glim- 
mer steals 



From thy pure brows, and from thy 

shoulders pure, 
And bosom beating with a heart re- 

new'd. 
Thy cheek begins to redden thro' the 

gloom, 
Thy sweet eyes brighten slowly close 

to mine, 
Ere yet they blind the stars, and the 

wild team 
Which love thee, yearning for thy 

yoke, arise, 4 o 

And shake .the darkness from their 

loosen' d manes, 
And beat the twilight into flakes of 

fire. 
Lo ! ever thus thou growest beautiful 
In silence, then before thine answer 

given 
Departest, and thy tears are on my 

cheek. 
Why wilt thou ever scare me with 

thy tears, 
And make me tremble lest a saying 

learnt, 
In days far-off, on that dark earth, be 

true ? 
' The Gods themselves cannot recall 

their gifts.' 
Ay me! ay me! with what an- 
other heart 50 
In days far-off, and with what other 

eyes 
I used to watch — if I be he that 

watch' d — 
The lucid outline forming round thee ; 

saw 
The dim curls kindle into sunny 

rings ; 
Changed with th}^ mystic change, and 

felt my blood 
Glow with the glow that slowly crim- 

son'd all 
Thy presence and thy portals, while I 

lay, 
Mouth, forehead, eyelids, growing 

dewy -warm 
With kisses balmier than half-opening 

buds 
Of April, and could hear the lips that 

kiss'd 60 

Whispering I knew not what of wild 

and sweet, 
Like that strange song I heard Apollo 

sing, 
While Ilion like a mist rose into towers. 



120 



ENGLISH IDYLS AND OTHER POEMS 



Yet hold me not for ever in thine 

East ; 
How can my nature longer mix with 

thine ? 
Coldly thy rosy shadows bathe me, 

cold 
Are all thy lights, and cold my 

wrinkled feet 
Upon thy glimmering thresholds, 

when the steam 
Floats up from those dim fields about 

the homes 
Of happy men that have the power to 

die, 70 

And grassy barrows of the happier 

dead. 
Eelease me, and restore me to the 

ground. 
Thou seest all things, thou wilt see 

my grave ; 
Thou wilt renew thy beauty morn by 

morn, 
I earth in earth forget these empty 

courts, 
And thee returning on thy silver 

wheels. 



LOCKSLEY HALL 

Comrades, leave me here a little, 
while as yet 'tis early morn ; 

Leave me here, and when you want 
me, sound upon the bugle- 
horn. 

'T is the place, and all around it, as of 

old, the curlews call, 
Dreary gleams about the moorland 

flying over Locksley Hall ; 

Locksley Hall, that in the distance 
overlooks the sandy tracts, 

And the hollow ocean-ridges roaring 
into cataracts. 

Many a night from yonder ivied case- 
ment, ere I went to rest, 

Did I look on great Orion sloping 
slowly to the west. 

Many a night I saw the Pleiads, ris- 
ing thro' the mellow shade, 

Glitter like a swarm of fireflies tangled 
in a silver braid. 10 



Here about the beach I wander'd, 
nourishing a youth sublime 

With the fairy tales of science, and 
the long result of time ; 

When the centuries behind me like a 

fruitful land reposed ; 
When I clung to all the present for 

the promise that it closed ; 

When I dipt into the future far as 

human eye could see, 
Saw the vision of the world and all 

the wonder that would be. — 

In the spring a fuller crimson comes 
upon the robin's breast ; 

In the spring the wanton lapwing gets 
himself another crest ; 

In the spring a livelier iris changes on 
the burnish'd dove ; 

In the spring a young man's fancy 
lightly turns to thoughts of 
love. 20 

Then her cheek was pale and thinner 
than should be for one so 
young, 

And her eyes on all my motions with 
a mute observance hung. 

And I said, ' My cousin Amy, speak, 
and speak the truth to me, 

Trust me, cousin, all the current of 
my being sets to thee.' 

On her pallid cheek and forehead came 

a color and a light, 
As I have seen the rosy red flushing 

in the northern night. 

And she turn'd — her bosom shaken 
with a sudden storm of sighs — 

All the spirit deeply dawning in the 
dark of hazel eyes — 

Saying, ' I have hid my feelings, fear- 
ing they should do me wrong ; ' 

Saying, * Dost thou love me, cousin ?' 
weeping, ' I have loved thee 
long.' 30 

Love took up the glass of Time, 
and turn'd it in his glowing 
hands ; 



LOCKSLEY HALL 



121 




' Comrades, leave me here a little, while as yet 'tis early morn ' 



Every moment, lightly shaken, ran 
itself in golden sands. 

Love took up the harp of Life, and 
smote on all the chords with 
might ; 

Smote the chord of Self, that, trem- 
bling, past in music out of 
sight. 

Many a morning on the moorland did 
we hear the copses ring, 

And her whisper throng' d my pulses 
with the fulness of the spring. 

Many an evening by the waters did 
we watch the stately ships, 

And our spirits rush'd together at the 
touching of the lips. 



O my cousin, shallow - hearted ! O 
my Amy, mine no more ! 

O the dreary, dreary moorland ! O the 
barren, barren shore ! 40 

Falser than all fancy fathoms, falser 
than all songs have sung, 

Puppet to a father's threat, and servile 
to a shrewish tongue ! 

Is it well to wish thee happy ?— hav- 
ing known me — to decline 

On a range of lower feelings and a 
narrower heart than mine ! 

Yet it shall be ; thou shalt lower to his 

level day by day, 
What is fine within thee growing coarse 

to sympathize with clay. 



ENGLISH IDYLS AND OTHER POEMS 



As the husband is, the wife is ; thou 
art mated with a clown, 

And the grossness of his nature will 
have weight to drag thee down. 

He will hold thee, when his passion 
shall have spent its novel force, 

Something better than his dog, a little 
dearer than his horse. 50 

What is this ? his eyes are heavy ; think 
not they are glazed with wine. 

Go to him, it is thy duty ; kiss him, 
take his hand in thine. 

It may be my lord is weary, that his 

brain is overwrought ; 
Soothe him with thy finer fancies, 

touch him with thy lighter 

thought. 

He will answer to the purpose, easy 
things to understand — 

Better thou wert dead before me, 
tho' I slew thee with my hand ! 

Better thou and I were lying, hidden 
from the heart's disgrace, 

Roll'd in one another's arms, and silent 
in a last embrace. 

Cursed be the social wants that sin 
against the strength of youth ! 

Cursed be the social lies that warp us 
from the living truth ! 60 

Cursed be the sickly forms that err 
from honest Nature's rule ! 

Cursed be the gold that gilds the 
straiten'd forehead of the fool ! 

Well — 'tis well that I should blus- 
ter ! — Hadst thou less un- 
worthy proved — 

Would to God — for I had loved thee 
more than ever wife was loved. 

Am I mad, that I should cherish that 
which bears but bitter fruit ? 

I will pluck it from my bosom, tho' 
my heart be at the root. 

Never, tho' my mortal summers to such 
length of years should come 

As the many- winter' d crow that leads 
the clanging rookery home. 



Where is comfort ? in division of the 

records of the mind ? 
Can I part her from herself, and love 

her, as I knew her, kind ? 70 

I remember one that perish' d ; sweetly 
did she speak and move ; 

Such a one do I remember, whom to 
look at was to love. 

Can I think of her as dead, and love 
her for the love she bore ? 

No — she never loved me truly ; love 
is love for evermore. 

Comfort ? comfort scorn'd of devils ! 

this is truth the poet sings, 
That a sorrow's crown of sorrow is 

remembering happier things. 

Drug thy memories, lest thou learn 
it, lest thy heart be put to 
proof, 

In the dead unhappy night, and when 
the rain is on the roof. 

Like a dog, he hunts in dreams, and 
thou art staring at the wall, 

Where the dying night-lamp flick- 
ers, and the shadows rise and 
fall. 80 

Then a hand shall pass before thee, 
pointing to his drunken sleep, 

To thy widow'd marriage-pillows, to 
the tears that thou wilt weep. 

Thou shalt hear the 'Never, never,' 
whisper'd by the phantom years, 

And a song from out the distance in 
the ringing of thine ears ; 

And an eye shall vex thee, looking 
ancient kindness on thy pain. 

Turn thee, turn thee on thy pillow ; 
get thee to thy rest again. 

Nay, but Nature brings thee solace ; 

for a tender voice will cry. 
'Tis a purer life than thine, a lip to 

drain thy trouble dry. 

Baby lips will laugh me down; my 
latest rival brings thee rest. 

Baby fingers, waxen touches, press me 
from the mother's breast. 90 



LOCKSLEY HALL 



123 



O, the child too clothes the father 
with a clearness not his due. 

Half is thine and half is his ; it will 
be worthy of the two. 

O, I see thee old and formal, fitted to 
thy petty part, 

With a little hoard of maxims preach- 
ing down a daughter's heart. 



What is that which I should turn to, 
lighting upon days like these ? 

Every door is barr'd with gold, and 
opens but to golden keys. 100 

Every gate is throng'd with suitors, 
all the markets overflow. 

I have but an angry fancy ; what is 
that which I should do ? 




' Many an evening by the waters did we watch the stately ships ' 



1 They were dangerous guides the feel- 
ings — she herself was not ex- 
empt — 

Truly,she herself had sufTer'd' — Per- 
ish in thy self-contempt ! 

Dverlive it — lower yet — be happy! 

wherefore should I care ? 
[ myself must mix with action, lest I 

wither by despair. 



I had been content to perish, falling 
on the foeman's ground, 

When the ranks are roll'd in vapor, 
and the winds are laid with 
sound. 

But the jingling of the guinea helps 
the hurt that Honor feels, 

And the nations do but murmur, snarl- 
ing at each other's heels. 



124 



ENGLISH IDYLS AND OTHER POEMS 



Can 



will 



I but relive in sadness ? I 
turn that earlier page. 
Hide me from my deep emotion, O 
thou wondrous Mother- Age ! 

Make me feel the wild pulsation that 
I felt before the strife, 

When I heard my days before me, and 
the tumult of my life ; no 

Yearning for the large excitement that 
the coming years would yield, 

Eager-hearted as a boy when first he 
leaves his father's field, 

And at night along the dusky high- 
way near and nearer drawn, 

Sees in heaven the light of London 
flaring like a dreary dawn ; 

And his spirit leaps within him to be 

gone before him then, 
Underneath the light he looks at, in 

among the throngs of men ; 

Men, my brothers, men the workers, 
ever reaping something new ; 

That which they have done but earnest 
of the things that they shall do. 

For I dipt into the future, far as 

human eye could see. 
Saw the Vision of the world, and all 

the wonder that would be ; 120 

Saw the heavens fill with commerce, 
argosies of magic sails, 

Pilots of the purple twilight, dropping 
down with costly bales ; 

Heard the heavens fill with shout- 
ing, and there rain'd a ghastly 
dew 

From the nations' airy navies grap- 
pling in the central blue ; 

Far along the world-wide whisper of 
the south-wind rushing warm, 

With the standards of the peoples 
plunging thro' the thunder- 
storm ; 

Till the war-drum throbb'd no longer, 
and the battle-flags were furl'd 

In the Parliament of man, the Feder- 
ation of the world. 



There the common sense of most 
shall hold a fretful realm in 
awe, 

And the kindly earth shall slumber, 
lapt in universal law. 130 

So I triumph'd ere my passion sweep- 
ing thro' me left me dry, 

Left me with the palsied heart, and 
left me with the jaundiced eye ; 

E} r e, to which all order festers, all 
things here are out of joint. 

Science moves, but slowly, slowly, 
creeping on from point to point ; 

Slowly comes a hungry people, as a 

lion, creeping nigher, 
Glares at one that nods and winks 

behind a slowly-dying fire. 

Yet I doubt not thro' the ages one 
increasing purpose runs, 

And the thoughts of men are widen'd 
with the process of the suns. 

What is that to him that reaps not 
harvest of his youthful joys, 

Tho' the deep heart of existence beat 
for ever like a boy's ? 140 

Knowledge comes, but wisdom lin- 
gers, and I linger on the shore, 

And the individual withers, and the 
world is more and more. 

Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers, 
and he bears a laden breast, 

Full of sad experience, moving to- 
ward the stillness of his rest. 

Hark, my merry comrades call me, 
sounding on the bugle-horn, 

They to whom my foolish passion 
were a target for their scorn. 

Shall it not be scorn to me to harp on 
such a moulder'd string ? 

I am shamed thro' all my nature to 
have loved so slight a thing. 

Weakness to be wroth with weak- 
ness ! woman's pleasure, wo- 
man's pain — 149 

Nature made them blinder motions 
bounded in a shallower brain. 



LOCKSLEY HALL 



Woman is the lesser man, and all thy 
passions, match' d with mine, 

Are as moonlight unto sunlight, and 
as water unto wine — 

Here at least, where nature sickens, 
nothing. Ah, for some retreat 

Deep in yonder shining Orient, where 
my life began to beat, 

Where in wild Mahratta-battle fell 
my father evil-starr'd ; — 

I was left a trampled orphan, and a 
selfish uncle's ward. 

Or to burst all links of habit — there 

to wander far away, 
On from island unto island at the 

gateways of the day. 



Larger constellations burning, mellow 
moons and happy skies, 

Breadths of tropic shade and palms in 
cluster, knots of Paradise. 160 

Never comes the trader, never floats 

an European flag, 
Slides the bird o'er lustrous woodland, 

swings the trailer from the crag ; 

Droops the heavy blossom'd bower, 
hangs the heavy-fruited tree — 

Summer isles of Eden lying in dark- 
purple spheres of sea. 

There methinks would be enjoyment 
more than in this march of mind, 

In the steamship, in the railway, in the 
thoughts that shake mankind. 




' Baby lips will laugh me down ; my latest rival brings thee rest. 
Baby fingers, waxen touches, press me from the mother's breast ' 



126 



ENGLISH IDYLS AND OTHER POEMS 



/ 



There the passions cramp'd no longer 
shall have scope and breathing 
space ; 

I will take some savage woman, she 
shall rear my dusky race. 

Iron- jointed, supple-sinew'd, they shall 
dive, and they shall run, 

Catch the wild goat by the hair, and 
hurl their lances in the sun ; 170 

Whistle back the parrot's call, and leap 
the rainbows of the brooks, 

Not with blinded eyesight poring over 
miserable books — - 

Fool, again the dream, the fancy ! but 
I know my words are wild, 

But I count the gray barbarian lower 
than the Christian child. 

I, to herd with narrow foreheads, 
vacant of our glorious gains, 

Like a beast with lower pleasures, like 
a beast with lower pains ! 

Mated with a squalid savage — what 
to me were sun or clime ? 

I the heir of all the ages, in the fore- 
most files of time — 

I that rather held it better men should 
perish one by one, 179 

Than that earth should stand at gaze 
like Joshua's moon in Ajalon ! 

Not in vain the distance beacons. 

Forward, forward let us range, 
Let the great world spin for ever down 

the ringing grooves of change. 

Thro' the shadow of the globe we 
sweep into the younger day ; 

Better fifty years of Europe than a 
cycle of Cathay. 

Mother- Age, — for mine I knew not, — 
help me as when life begun ; 

Rift the hills, and roll the waters, flash 
the lightnings, weigh the sun. 

O, I see the crescent promise of my 

spirit hath not set. 
Ancient founts of inspiration well 

thro' all my fancy yet. 



Howsoever these things be, a long 
farewell to Locksley Hall ! 

Now for me the woods may wither, 
now for me the roof -tree fall. 

Comes a vapor from the margin, black- 
ening over heath and holt, i 9I 

Cramming all the blast before it, in 
its breast a thunderbolt. 

Let it fall on Locksley Hall, with rain 
or hail, or fire or snow ; 

For the mighty wind arises, roaring 
seaward, and I go. 



GODIVA 

I waited for the train at Coventry; 
I hung with grooms and porters on the 

bridge, 
To icatch the three tall spires; and there 

I shaped 
The city's ancient legend into this : — 

Not only we, the latest seed of Time, 
New men, that in the flying of a wheel 
Cry down the past, not only we, that 

prate 
Of rights and wrongs, have loved the 

people well, 
And loathed to see them overtax'd; 

but she 
Did more, and underwent, and over- 
came, 10 
The woman of a thousand summers 

back, 
Godiva, wife to that grim Earl, who 

ruled 
In Coventry ; for when he laid a tax 
Upon his town, and all the mothers 

brought 
Their children, clamoring, ' If we pay, 

we starve ! ' 
She sought her lord, and found him, 

where he strode 
About the hall, among his dogs, alone, 
His beard a foot before him, and his hair 
A yard behind. She told him of their 

tears, 
And pray'd him, ' If they pay this tax, 

they starve.' 20 

Whereat he stared, replying, half- 
amazed, 
* You would not let your little finger 

ache 



GODIVA 



L For such as these f* — 'But I would 

die,' said she. 
He laugh'd, and swore by Peter and 

by Paul, 

Then fillip' d at the diamond in her ear : 
O, ay, ay, ay, you talk ! ' — * Alas ! ' 

she said, 
i But prove me what it is I would not 

do.' 



As winds from all the compass shift 
and blow, 

Made war upon each other for an 
hour, 

Till pity won. She sent a herald forth, 

And bade him cry, with sound of trum- 
pet, all 

The hard condition, but that she would 
loose 




' Then fled she to her inmost bower, and there 
Unclasp' d the wedded eagles of her belt ' 



•bid from a heart as rough as Esau's 

hand, 
le answer'd, ' Ride you naked thro' 

the town, 
And I repeal it;' and nodding, as in 

scorn, 30 

■:Ie parted, with great strides among 

his dogs. 
So left alone, the passions of her 

mind, 



The people ; therefore, as they loved 

her well, 
From then till noon no foot should 

pace the street, 
No eye look down, she passing, but 

that all 40 

Should keep within, door shut, and 

window barr'd. 
Then fled she to her inmost bower, 

and there 



128 



ENGLISH IDYLS AND OTHER POEMS 



Unclasp'd the wedded eagles of her 

belt, 
The grim Earl's gift ; but ever at a 

breath 
She linger' d, looking like a summer 

moon 
Half -dipt in cloud. Anon she shook 

her head, 
And shower' d the rippled ringlets to 

her knee ; 
Unclad herself in haste ; adown the 

stair 
Stole on ; and like a creeping sunbeam 

slid 
From pillar unto pillar, until she 

reach'd 50 

The gateway ; there she found her 

palfrey trapt 
In purple blazon'd with armorial 

gold. 
Then she rode forth, clothed on with 

chastity. 
The deep air listen'd round her as she 

rode, 
And all the low wind hardly breathed 

for fear. 
The little wide-mouth'd heads upon 

the spout 
Had cunning eyes to see ; the barking 

cur 
Made her cheek flame ; her palfrey's 

footfall shot 
Light horrors thro' her pulses; the 

blind walls 
Were full of chinks and holes ; and 

overhead 60 

Fantastic gables, crowding, stared ; 

but she 
Not less thro' all bore up, till, last, she 

saw 
The white-flower'd elder-thicket from 

the field 
Gleam thro' the Gothic archway in the 

wall. 
Then she rode back, clothed on with 

chastity. 
And one low churl, compact of thank. 

less earth, 
The fatal byword of all years to come, 
Boring a little auger-hole in fear, 
Peep'd — but his eyes, before they had 

their will, 
Were shrivell'd into darkness in his 

head, 7 o 

And dropt before him. So the Powers, 

who wait 



On noble deeds, cancell'd a sense mis- 
used ; 
And she, that knew not, pass'd ; and 

all at once, 
With twelve great shocks of sound, 

the shameless noon 
Was clash' d and hammer'd from a 

hundred towers, 
One after one ; but even then she 

gain'd 
Her bower, whence reissuing, robed 

and crown' d, 
To meet her lord, she took the tax 

away 
And built herself an everlasting name. 

THE DAY-DREAM 

PROLOGUE 

O Lady Flora, let me speak ; 

A pleasant hour has passed away 
While, dreaming on your damask 
cheek, 

The dewy sister-eyelids lay. 
As by the lattice you reclined, 

I went thro' many wayward moods 
To see you dreaming — and, behind, 

A summer crisp with shining woods. 
And I too dream'd, until at last 

Across my fancy, brooding warm, 10 
The reflex of a legend past, 

And loosely settled into form. 
And would you have the thought I had, 

And see the vision that I saw. 
Then take the broidery-frame, and add 

A crimson to the quaint macaw, 
And I will tell it. Turn your face, 

Nor look with that too-earnest eye — 
The rhymes are dazzled from their 
place 

And order'd words asunder fly. 20 

THE SLEEPING PALACE 



The varying year with blade and sheaf 

Clothes and reclothes the happy 
plains, 
Here rests the sap within the leaf, 

Here stays the blood along the veins. 
Faint shadows, vapors lightly curl'd, 

Faint murmurs from the meadows 
come, 
Like hints and echoes of the world 

To spirits folded in the womb. 



THE DAY-DREAM 



129 




' The page has caught her hand in his ; 
Her lips are sever' d as to speak ' 



Soft lustre bathes the range of urns 

On every slanting terrace-lawn. 30 
The fountain to his place returns 

Deep in the garden lake with- 
drawn. 
Here droops the banner on the tower, 

On the hall-hearths the festal fires, 
The peacock in his laurel bower, 

The parrot in his gilded wires. 

in 
Roof-haunting martins warm their 
eggs: 
In these, in those the life is stay'd. 
The mantles from the golden pegs 

Droop sleepily ; no sound is made, 40 
Not even of a gnat that sings. 

More like a picture seemeth all 
Than those old portraits of old kings, 
That watch the sleepers from the 
wall. 



Here sits the butler with a flask 

Between his knees, half-drain'd ; and 
there 
The wrinkled steward at his task, 

The maid-of -honor blooming fair. 
The page has caught her hand in his ; 

Her lips are sever' d as to speak ; 50 
His own are pouted to a kiss ; 

The blush is fix'd upon her cheek. 



Till all the hundred summers pass. 

The beams that thro' the oriel 
shine 
Make prisms in every carven glass 

And beaker brimm'd with noble 
wine. 
Each baron at the banquet sleeps, 

Grave faces gather' d in a ring. 
His state the king reposing keeps. 

He must have been a jovial kin 



13° 



ENGLISH IDYLS AND OTHER POEMS 



All 



hedge upshoots, and 



round a 
shows 

At distance like a little wood ; 
Thorns, ivies, woodbine, mistletoes, 
And grapes with bunches red as 
blood ; 
All creeping plants, a wall of green 
Close-matted, bur and brake and 
brier, 
And glimpsing over these, just seen, 
High up, the topmost palace spire. 

VII 

When will the hundred summers 
die, 
And thought and time be born 
again, 70 

And newer knowledge, drawing nigh, 
Bring truth that sways the soul of 
men ? 
Here all things in their place remain, 

As all were order' d, ages since. 
Come, Care and Pleasure, Hope and 
Pain, 
And bring the fated fairy Prince. 

THE SLEEPING BEAUTY 



Year after year unto her feet, 
She lying on her couch alone, 
Across the purple coverlet 
The maiden's jet-black hair has 
grown, 80 

On either side her tranced form 
Forth streaming from a braid of 
pearl ; 
The slumbrous light is rich and 
warm, 
And moves not on the rounded 
curl. 



The silk star-broider'd coverlid 

Unto her limbs itself doth mould 
Languidly ever ; and, amid 
Her full black ringlets downward 
roll'd, 
Glows forth each softly - shadow'd 
arm 
With bracelets of the diamond 
bright. 90 

Her constant beauty doth inform 
Stillness with love, and day with 
light. 



She sleeps ; her breathings are not 
heard 
In palace chambers far apart. 
The fragrant tresses are not stirr'd 
That lie upon her charmed heart. 
She sleeps ; on either hand upswells 
The gold-fringed pillow lightly 
pre st ; 
She sleeps, nor dreams, but ever 
dwells 
A perfect form in perfect rest. 100 

THE ARRIVAL 

I 

All precious things, disco ver'd late, 

To those that seek them issue forth ; 
For love in sequel works with fate, 

And draws the veil from hidden 
worth. 
He travels far from other skies — 

His mantle glitters on the rocks — 
A fairy Prince, with joyful eyes, 

And lighter-footed than the fox. 

11 

The bodies and the bones of those 

That strove in other days to pass no 
Are wither'd in the thorny close, 

Or scatter' d blanching on the grass. 
He gazes on the silent dead : 

'They perish'd in their daring 
deeds.' 
This proverb flashes thro' his head, 

' The many fail, the one succeeds.' 



He comes, scarce knowing what he 
seeks ; 
He breaks the hedge; he enters 
there ; 
The color flies into his cheeks ; 

He trusts to light on something 
fair ; 120 

For all his life the charm did talk 
About his path, and hover near 
With words of promise in his walk, 
And whisper' d voices at his ear. 



More close and close his footsteps 
wind ; 

The Magic Music in his heart 
Beats quick and quicker, till he find 

The quiet chamber far apart. 



THE DAY-DREAM 



J 3i 



His spirit flutters like a lark, 

He stoops — to kiss her — on his 
knee. i 3 o 

' Love, if thy tresses be so dark, 
How dark those hidden eyes must 
be!' 

THE REVIVAL 
I 

A touch, a kiss ! the charm was 
snapt. 
There rose a noise of striking 
clocks, 
And feet that ran, and doors that 
clapt, 
And barking dogs, and crowing 
cocks ; 
A fuller light illumined all, 
A breeze thro' all the garden 
swept, 
A sudden hubbub shook the hall, 
And sixty feet the fountain leapt. 140 



The hedge broke in, the banner blew, 
The butler drank, the steward 
scrawl' d, 
The fire shot up, the martin flew, 
The parrot scream'd, the peacock 
squall' d, 
The maid and page renew'd their 
strife, 
The palace bang'd and buzz'd and 
clackt, 
And all the long-pent stream of life 
Dash'd downward in a cataract. 



And last with these the king awoke, 

And in his chair himself uprear'd, 150 
And yawn'd, and rubb'd his face, and 
spoke, 
1 By holy rood, a royal beard ! 
How say you ? we have slept, my 
lords. 
My beard has grown into my lap.' 




' How say you ? we have slept, my lords. 
My beard has grown into my lap " ' 



132 



ENGLISH IDYLS AND OTHER POEMS 






The barons swore, with many words, 
'T was but an after-dinner's nap. 



' Pardy,' return'd the king, 'but still 

My joints are somewhat stiff or so. 
My lord, and shall we pass the bill 

I mention' d half an hour ago ? ' 160 
The chancellor, sedate and vain, 

In courteous words return'd reply, 
But dallied with his golden chain, 

And, smiling, put the question by. 

THE DEPARTURE 



And on her lover's arm she leant, 

And round her waist she felt it fold, 
And far across the hills they went 

In that new world which is the 
old; 
Across the hills, and far away 

Beyond their utmost purple rim, 170 
And deep into the dying day 

The happy princess follow'd him. 



* I 'd sleep another hundred years, 

love, for such another kiss ; ' 

1 0, wake for ever, love,' she hears ; 
' O love, 't was such as this and 
this/ 
And o'er them many a sliding star 
And many a merry wind was 
borne, 
And, stream' d thro' many a golden 
bar, 
The twilight melted into morn. 180 

in 
' O eyes long laid in happy sleep ! ' 
' O happy sleep, that lightly fled ! ' 
O happy kiss, that woke thy sleep ! ' 

1 O love, thy kiss would wake the 

dead ! ' 
And o'er them many a flowing range 

Of vapor buoy'd the crescent-bark, 
And, rapt thro' many a rosy change, 

The twilight died into the dark. 

IV 

' A hundred summers ! can it be ? 

And whither goest thou, tell me 
where ? ' 190 

4 O, seek my father's court with me, 

For there are greater wonders there.' 



And o'er the hills, and far away 
Beyond their utmost purple rim, 

Beyond the night, across the day, 
Thro' all the world she follow'd him. 



MORAL 

1 
So, Lady Flora, take my lay, 

And if you rind no moral there. 
Go, look in any glass and say, 

What moral is in being fair. 200 

O, to what uses shall we put 

The wildweed-flower that simply 
blows ? 
And is there any moral shut 

Within the bosom of the rose ? 

11 
But any man that walks the mead, 

In bud or blade or bloom, may 
find, 
According as his humors lead, 

A meaning suited to his mind. 
And liberal applications lie 

In Art like Nature, dearest friend ; 
So 't were to cramp its use if I 211 

Should hook it to some useful end. 

L'ENVOI 



You 



head. A random 



shake your 
string 
Your finer female sense offends. 
Well — were it not a pleasant thing 

To fall asleep with all one's friends ; 
To pass with all our social ties 

To silence from the paths of men, 
And every hundred years to rise 
And learn the world, and sleep 
again ; 220 

To sleep thro' terms of mighty wars, 
And wake on science grown to 
more, 
On secrets of the brain, the stars, 
As wild as aught of fairy lore ; 
And all that else the years will 
show, 
The Poet-forms of stronger hours, 
The vast Republics that may grow, 
The Federations and the Powers ; 
Titanic forces taking birth 

In divers seasons, divers climes ? 230 
For we are Ancients of the earth, 
And in the morning of the times. 



AMPHION 



!33 



ii 
So sleeping, so aroused from sleep 

Thro' sunny decads new and strange, 
Or gay quinquenniads, would we 
reap 
The flower and quintessence of 
change. 



Ah, yet would I — and would I might ! 

So much your eyes my fancy take — 
Be still the first to leap to light 

That I might kiss those eyes awake ! 
For, am I right, or am I wrong, 241 

To choose your own you did not 
care ; 
You 'd have my moral from the song, 

And I will take my pleasure there ; 
And, am I right or am I wrong, 

My fancy, ranging thro' and thro', 
To search a meaning for the song, 

Perforce will still revert to you, 
Nor finds a closer truth than this 

All -graceful head, so richly curl'd, 
And evermore a costly kiss 251 

The prelude to some brighter world. 

IV 

For since the time when Adam first 

Embraced his Eve in happy hour, 
And every bird of Eden burst 

In carol, every bud to flower, 
What eyes, like thine, have waken' d 
hopes, 

What lips, like thine, so sweetly 
join'd ? 
Where on the double rosebud droops 

The fulness of the pensive mind ; 260 
Which, all too dearly self-involved, 

Yet sleeps a dreamless sleep to me, — 
A sleep by kisses undissolved, 

That lets thee neither hear nor see : 
But break it. In the name of wife, 

And in the rights that name may 
give, 
Are clasp'd the moral of thy life, 

And that for which I care to live. 



EPILOGUE 

So, Lady Flora, take my lay, 
And if you find a meaning there, 270 

O, whisper to your glass, and say, 
' What wonder if he thinks me fair? ' 

What wonder I was all unwise, 
To shape the song for your delight 



Like long-tail'd birds of Paradise 
That float thro' heaven, and cannot 
light ? 

Or old-world trains, upheld at court 
By Cupid-boys of blooming hue — 

But take it — earnest wed with sport, 
And either sacred unto you. 2 8e 



AMPHION 

My father left a park to me, 

But it is wild and barren, 
A garden too with scarce a tree, 

And waster than a warren ; 
Yet say the neighbors when they call 

It is not bad but good land, 
And in it is the germ of all 

That grows within the woodland. 

O, had I lived when song was great 

In days of old Amphion, 10 

And ta'en my fiddle to the gate, 

Nor cared for seed or scion ! 
And had I lived when song was great, 

And legs of trees were limber, 
And ta'en my fiddle to the gate, 

And fiddled in the timber ! 

'T is said he had a tuneful tongue, 

Such happy intonation, 
Wherever he sat down and sung 

He left a small plantation ; 20 

Wherever in a lonely grove 

He set up his forlorn pipes, 
The gouty oak began to move, 

And flounder into hornpipes. 

The mountain stirr'd its bushy crown, 

And, as tradition teaches, 
Young ashes pirouetted down 

Coquetting with young beech< 
And briony-vine and ivy- wreath 

Kan forward to his rhyming, 30 

And from the valleys underneath 

Came little copses climbing. 

The linden broke her ranks and rent 
The woodbine wreaths that bind 
her, 

And down the middle, buzz ! she went 
With all her bees behind her ; 

The poplars, in long order due. 

With cypress promenaded, 

The shock head willows two and two 

By rivers gallopaded. 40 



J 34 



ENGLISH IDYLS AND OTHER POEMS 



Came wet-shod alder from the wave, 

Came yews, a dismal coterie ; 
Each pi uck' d his one foot from the 
grave, 

Poussetting with a sloe-tree ; 
Old elms came breaking from the 
vine, 

The vine stream'd out to follow, 
And, sweating rosin, plump'd the pine 

From many a cloudy hollow. 

And wasn't it a sight to see, 

When, ere his song was ended, 50 
Like some great landslip, tree by tree, 

The country-side descended ; 
And shepherds from the mountain- 
eaves 

Look'd down, half - pleased, half- 
frighten'd, 
As dash'd about the drunken leaves 

The random sunshine lighten'd ? 

O, Nature first was fresh to men, 

And wanton without measure ; 
So youthful and so flexile then, 

You moved her at your pleasure. 60 
Twang out, my fiddle ! shake the 
twigs ! 

And make her dance attendance ; 
Blow, flute, and stir the stiff-set sprigs, 

And scirrhous roots and tendons ! 

'T is vain ! in such a brassy age 

I could not move a thistle ; 
The very sparrows in the hedge 

Scarce answer to my whistle ; 
Or at the most, when three-parts-sick 

With strumming and with scraping, 
A jackass heehaws from the rick, 71 

The passive oxen gaping. 

But what is that I hear ? a sound 

Like sleepy counsel pleading ; 
O Lord! — 'tis in my neighbor's 
ground, 

The modern Muses reading. 
They read Botanic Treatises, 

And Works on Gardening thro' 
there, 
And Methods of Transplanting Trees 

To look as if they grew there. 80 

The wither' d Misses ! how they prose 
O'er books of travell'd seamen, 

And show you slips of all that grows 
From England to Yan Diemen. 



They read in arbors dipt and cut, 

And alleys, faded places, 
By squares of tropic summer shut 

And warm'd in crystal cases. 

But these, tho' fed with careful dirt, 

Are neither green nor sappy ; 90 
Half-conscious of the garden-squirt, 

The spindlings look unhappy. 
Better to me the meanest weed 

That blows upon its mountain, 
The vilest herb that runs to seed 

Beside its native fountain. 

And I must work thro' months of toil, 

And years of cultivation, 
Upon my proper patch of soil 

To grow my own plantation. 100 
I '11 take the showers as they fall, 

I will not vex my bosom ; 
Enough if at the end of all 

A little garden blossom. 



SAINT AGNES' EYE 

Deep on the convent-roof the snows 

Are sparkling to the moon ; 
My breath to heaven like vapor goes ; 

May my soul follow soon ! 
The shadows of the convent -towers 

Slant down the snowy sward, 
Still creeping with the creeping hours 

That lead me to my Lord. 
Make Thou my spirit pure and clear 

As are the frosty skies, 
Or this first snowdrop of the year 

That in my bosom lies. 

As these white robes are soil'd and 
dark, 

To yonder shining ground ; 
As this pale taper's earthly spark, 

To yonder argent round ; 
So shows my soul before the Lamb, 

My spirit before Thee ; 
So in mine earthly house I am, 

To that I hope to be. 
Break up the heavens, O Lord ! and far, 

Thro' all yon starlight keen, 
Draw me, thy bride, a glittering 
star, 

In raiment white and clean. 

He lifts me to the golden doors ; 
The flashes come and go ; 



EDWARD GRAY 



!35 




4 My breath to heaven like vapor goes ; 
May my soul follow soon ' 



All heaven bursts her starry floors, 

And strows her lights below, 
And deepens on and up ! the gates 

Roll back, and far within 
For me the Heavenly Bridegroom 
waits, 

To make me pure of sin. 
The Sabbaths of Eternity, 

One Sabbath deep and wide — 
A light upon the shining sea — 

The Bridegroom with his bride ! 

EDWARD GRAY 

Sweet Emma Moreland of yonder 
town 
Met me walking on yonder way ; 



1 And have you lost your heart ? ' she 
said; 
' And are you married yet, Edward 
Gray?' 

Sweet Emma Moreland spoke to me ; 

Bitterly weeping I turn'd away : 
' Sweet Emma Moreland, love no more 

Can touch the heart of Edward 
Gray. 

' Ellen Adair she loved me well, 
Against her father's and mother's 
will ; 
To-day I sat for an hour and wept 
By Ellen's grave, on the windy 
hill. 



136 



ENGLISH IDYLS AND OTHER POEMS 



'Shy 



and I thought her 



and fled over 



she was, 
cold, 
Thought her proud, 
the sea ; 

Fill'd I was with folly and spite, 
When Ellen Adair was dying for me. 

' Cruel, cruel the words I said ! 

Cruelly came they back to-day : 
"You 're too slight and fickle," I said, 

"To trouble the heart of Edward 
'Gray." 

'There I put my face in the grass — 
Whisper'd, "Listen to my despiair ; 

I repent me of -all I did ; 

Speak a little, Ellen Adair ! " 

' Then I took a pencil, and wrote 
On the mossy stone, as I lay, 

" Here lies the body of Ellen Adair ; 
And here the heart of Edward 
Gray ! " 

* Love may come, and love may go, 
And fly, like a bird, from tree to 
tree ; 

But I will love no more, no more, 
Till Ellen Adair come back to me. 

1 Bitterly wept I over the stone ; 

Bitterly weeping I turn'd away. 
There lies the body of Ellen Adair ! 

And there the heart of Edward 
Gray ! ' 



SIR GALAHAD 

My good blade carves the casques of 
men, 

My tough lance thrusteth sure, 
My strength is as the strength of ten, 

Because my heart is pure. 
The shattering trumpet shrilleth high. 

The hard brands shiver on the steel, 
The splinter'd spear-shafts crack and 

fly, 

The horse and rider reel ; 
They reel, they roll in clanging lists, 9 

And when the tide of combat stands, 
Perfume and flowers fall in showers, 

That lightly rain from ladies' hands. 

How sweet are looks that ladies bend 
On whom their favors fall ! 



For them I battle till the end, 

To save from shame and thrall ; 
But all my heart is drawn above, 

My knees are bow'd in crypt and 
shrine ; 
I never felt the kiss of love, 

Nor maiden's hand in mine. 2c 

More bounteous aspects on me beam, 

Me mightier transports move and 
thrill ; 
So keep I fair thro' faith and prayer 

A virgin heart in work and will. 

When down the stormy crescent 
goes, 

A light before me swims, 
Between dark stems the forest glows, 

I hear a noise of hymns. 
Then by some secret shrine I ride ; 

I hear a voice, but none are there ; 
The stalls are void, the doors are 
wide, 31 

The tapers burning fair. 
Fair gleams the snowy altar-cloth, 

The silver vessels sparkle clean, 
The shrill bell rings, the censer swings, 

And solemn chaunts resound be- 
tween. 

Sometimes on lonely mountain-meres 

I find a magic bark. 
I leap on board ; no helmsman steers ; 

I float till all is dark. 40 

A gentle sound, an awful light ! 

Three angels bear the Holy Grail ; 
With folded feet, in stoles of white, 

On sleeping wings they sail. 
Ah, blessed vision ! blood of God ! 

My spirit beats her mortal bars, 
As down dark tides the glory slides, 

And starlike mingles with the stars. 

When on my goodly charger borne 

Thro' dreaming towns I go, 50 

The cock crows ere the Christmas 
morn, 

The streets are dumb with snow. 
The tempest crackles on the leads, 

And, ringing, springs from brand 
and mail ; 
But o'er the dark a glory spreads, 

And gilds the driving hail. 
I leave the plain, I climb the height ; 

No branchy thicket shelter yields ; 
But blessed forms in whistling storms 

Fly o'er waste fens and windy fields. 



Sir Galahad 



WILL WATERPROOF'S LYRICAL MONOLOGUE 137 



A maiden knight — to me is given 61 

Such hope, I know not fear ; 
I yearn to breathe the airs of heaven 

That often meet me here. 
I muse on joy that will not cease, 

Pure spaces clothed in living beams, 
Pure lilies of eternal peace, 

Whose odors haunt my dreams ; 
And, stricken by an angel's hand, 

This mortal armor that I wear, 7 o 
This weight and size, this heart and 
eyes, 

Are touched, are turn'd to finest 
air. 

The clouds are broken in the sky, 
And thro' the mountain- walls 

A rolling organ-harmony 
Swells up and shakes and falls. 



Then move the trees, the copses nod, 

Wings flutter, voices hover clear : 
' O just and faithful knight of God ! 

Ride on ! the prize is near.' 80 

So pass I hostel, hall, and grange ; 

By bridge and ford, by park and 
pale, 
All-arm'd I ride, what e'er betide. 

Until I find the Holy Grail. 

WILL WATERPROOF'S LYRICAL 
MONOLOGUE 

MADE AT THE COCK 

O plump head-waiter at The Cock, 

To which I most resort, 
How goes the time ? 'T is five o'clock. 

Go fetch a pint of port ; 




' Then by some secret shrine I ride ; 
I hear a voice, but none are there ' 



i38 



ENGLISH IDYLS AND OTHER POEMS 



But let it not be such as that 
You set before chance-comers, 

But such whose father-grape grew 
fat 
On Lusitanian summers. 

No vain libation to the Muse, 

But may she still be kind, 10 

And whisper lovely words, and use 

Her influence on the mind, 
To make me write my random rhymes, 

Ere they be half -forgotten ; 
Nor add and alter, many times, 

Till all be ripe and rotten. 

I pledge her, and she comes and dips 

Her laurel in the wine, 
And lays it thrice upon my lips, 

These favor'd lips of mine ; 20 

Until the charm have power to make 

New life-blood warm the bosom, 
And barren commonplaces break 

In full and kindly blossom. 

I pledge her silent at the board ; 

Her gradual fingers steal 
And touch upon the master-chord 

Of all I felt and feel. 
Old wishes, ghosts of broken plans, 

And phantom hopes assemble ; 30 
And that child's heart within the man's 

BegiDS to move and tremble. 

Thro' many an hour of summer suns, 

By many pleasant ways, 
Against its fountain upward runs 

The current of my days. 
I kiss the lips I once have kiss' d ; 

The gaslight wavers dimmer ; 
And softly, thro' a vinous mist, 

My college friendships glimmer. 40 

I grow in worth and wit and sense, 

Unboding critic-pen, 
Or that eternal want of pence 

Which vexes public men, 
Who hold their hands to all, and cry 

For that which all deny them — 
Who sweep the crossings, wet or 
dry, 

And all the world go by them. 

Ah ! yet, tho' all the world forsake, 
Tho' fortune clip my wings, 50 

I will not cramp my heart, nor take 
Half -views of men and things. 



Let Whig and Tory stir their blood ; 

There must be stormy weather ; 
But for some true result of good 

All parties work together. 

Let there be thistles, there are grapes ; 

If old things, there are new ; 
Ten thousand broken lights and shapes, 

Yet glimpses of the true. 60 

Let raffs be rife in prose and rhyme, 

We lack not rhymes and reasons, 
As on this whirligig of Time 

We circle with the seasons. 

This earth is rich in man and maid, 

With fair horizons bound ; 
This whole wide earth of light and 
shade 

Comes out a perfect round. 
High over roaring Temple-bar, 

And set in heaven's third story, 70 
I look at all things as they are, 

But thro' a kind of glory. 



Head- waiter, honor'd by the guest 

Half -mused, or reeling ripe, 
The pint you brought me was the 
best 

That ever came from pipe. 
But tho' the port surpasses praise, 

My nerves have dealt with stiffer. 
Is there some magic in the place ? 

Or do my peptics differ ? 80 

For since I came to live and learn, 

No pint of white or red 
Had ever half the power to turn 

This wheel within my head, 
Which bears a season'd brain about, 

Unsubject to confusion, 
Tho' soak'd and saturate, out and out, 

Thro' every convolution. 

For I am of a numerous house, 

. With many kinsmen gay, 90 

Where long and largely we carouse 

As who shall say me nay ? 
Each month, a birthday coming on, 

We drink, defying trouble, 
Or sometimes two would meet in one, 

And then we drank it double ; 

Whether the vintage, yet unkept, 
Had relish fiery-new, 



WILL WATERPROOF'S LYRICAL MONOLOGUE i 39 




W (VUII^READV R.A 



JOH1M .'fHOlV/IP.SOIM. 



' But whither would my fancy go ? 

How out of place she makes 
The violet of a legend blow 
Among the chops and steaks ' 



Or elbow-deep in sawdust slept, 
As old as Waterloo, ioo 

Or, stow'd whem classic Canning 
died, 
In musty bins and chambers, 

Had cast upon its crusty side , 

The gloom of ten Decembers. 

The Muse, the jolly Muse, it is ! 

She answer'd to my call ; 
She changes with that mood or this, 

Is all-in-all to all ; 
She lit the spark within my throat, 

To make my blood run quicker, 1 10 
Used all her fiery will, and smote 

Her life into the liquor. 

And hence this halo lives about 
The waiter's hands, that reach 

To each his perfect pint of stout, 
His proper chop to each. 



He looks not like the common breed 
That with the napkin dally ; 

I think he came, like Ganymede, 
From some delightful valley. 120 

The Cock was of a larger egg 

Than modern poultry drop, 
Stept forward on a firmer leg, 

And cramm'd a plumper crop, 
Upon an ampler dunghill trod, 

Crow'd lustier late and early, 
Sipt wine from silver, praising God, 

And raked in golden barley. 

A private life was all his joy, 

Till in a court lie saw 130 

A something-pottle-bodied boy 
That knuckled at the taw. 

He stoop'd and clutch'd him, fair and 
good, 
Flew over roof and casement ; 



140 



ENGLISH IDYLS AND OTHER POEMS 



His brothers of the weather stood 
Stock-still for sheer amazement. 

But he, by farmstead, thorpe, and 
spire, 

And follow'd with acclaims, 
A sign to many a staring shire, 

Came crowing over Thames. 140 

Right down by smoky Paul's they 
bore, 

Till, where the street grows straiter, 
One fix'd for ever at the door, 

And one became he ad -waiter. 



But whither would my fancy go ? 

How out of place she makes 
The violet of a legend blow 

Among the chops and steaks ! 
'T is but a steward of the can, 

One shade more plump than com- 
mon ; - 150 
As just and mere a serving-man 

As any born of woman. 

I ranged too high : what draws me 
down 

Into the common day ? 
Is it the weight of that half-crown 

Which I shall have to pay ? 
For, something duller than at first, 

Nor wholly comfortable, 
I sit, my empty glass reversed, 

And thrumming on the table ; 160 

Half fearful that, with self at strife, 

I take myself to task, 
Lest of the fulness of my life 

I leave an empty flask ; 
For I had hope, by something rare, 

To prove myself a poet, 
But, while I plan and plan, my hair 

Is gray before I know it. 

So fares it since the years began, 

Till they be gather'd up ; 170 

The truth, that flies the flowing can, 

Will haunt the vacant cup ; 
And others' follies teach us not, 

Nor much their wisdom teaches ; 
And most, of sterling worth, is what 

Our own experience preaches. 

Ah, let the rusty theme alone ! 
We know not what we know. 



But for my pleasant hour, 't is gone ; 

'T is gone, and let it go. 180 

'T is gone: a thousand such have 
slipt 

Away from my embraces, 
And fallen into the dusty crypt 

Of darkend forms and faces. 

Go, therefore, thou ! thy betters went 

Long since, and came no more ; 
With peals of genial clamor sent 

From many a tavern-door, 
With twisted quirks and happy 
hits, 

From misty men of letters ; 190 

The tavern-hours of mighty wits, — 

Thine elders and thy betters ; 

Hours when the Poet's words and 
looks 

Had yet their native glow, 
Nor yet the fear of little books 

Had made him talk for show ; 
But, all his vast heart sherris-warm'd, 

He flash'd his random speeches, 
Ere days that deal in ana swarm' d 

His literary leeches. 200 

So mix for ever with the past, 

Like all good things on earth ! 
For should I prize thee, couldst thou 
last, 

At half thy real worth ? 
I hold it good, good things should 
pass; 

With time I will not quarrel ; 
It is but yonder empty glass 

That makes me maudlin-moral. 



Head- waiter of the chop-house here, 

To which I most resort, 210 

I too must part ; I hold thee dear 

For this good pint of port, 
For this, thou shalt from all things 
suck 

Marrow of mirth and laughter ; 
And wheresoe'er thou move, good 
luck 

Shall fling her old shoe after. 

But thou wilt never move from hence, 
The sphere thy fate allots ; 

Thy latter days increased with pence 
Go down among the pots ; 220 



LADY CLARE 



141 



Thou battenest by the greasy gleam 
In haunts of hungry sinners, 

Old boxes, larded with the steam 
Of thirty thousand dinners. 

We fret, we fume, would shift our 
skins, 

Would quarrel with our lot ; 
Thy care is, under polish'd tins, 

To serve the hot-and-hot ; 
To come and go, and come again, 

Returning like the pewit, 230 

And watch' d by silent gentlemen, 

That trifle with the cruet. 

Live long, ere from thy topmost head 

The thick- set hazel dies ; 
Long, ere the hateful crow shall 
tread 

The corners of thine eyes ; 
Live long, nor feel in head or chest 

Our changeful equinoxes, 
Till mellow Death, like some late 
guest, 

Shall call thee from the boxes. 240 

But when he calls, and thou shalt cease 

To pace the gritted floor, 
And, laying down an unctuous lease 

Of life, shalt earn no more, 
No carved cross-bones, the types of 
Death, 

Shall show thee past to heaven, 
But carved cross-pipes, and, under- 
neath, 

A pint-pot neatly graven. 



LADY CLARE 

It was the time when lilies blow, 
And clouds are highest up in air, 

Lord Ronald brought a lily-white 
doe 
To give his cousin, Lady Clare. 

I trow they did not part in scorn ; 

Lovers long-betroth'd were they ; 
They two will wed the morrow morn — 

God's blessing on the day ! 

' He does not love me for my birth, 
Nor for my lands so broad and 
fair ; 10 

He loves me for my own true worth, 
And that is well/ said Lady (Marc. 



In there came old Alice the nurse, 
Said, ' Who was this that went from 
thee ? ' 

'It was my cousin/ said Lady Clare; 
'To-morrow he weds with me.' 

'O, God be thank'd,' said Alice the 
nurse, 
'That all comes round so just and 
fair! 
Lord Ronald is heir of all your lands, 
And you are not the Lady Clare.' 20 

' Are ye out of your mind, my nurse, 

my nurse,' 

Said Lady Clare, ' that ye speak so 

wild?' 

' As God 's above,' said Alice the nurse, 

' I speak the truth : you are my child. 

'The old earl's daughter died at my 
breast ; 

I speak the truth, as I live by bread ! 
I buried her like my own sweet child, 

And put my child in her stead.' 

' Falsely, falsely have ye done, 29 

O mother,' she said, 'if this be true, 

To keep the best man under the sun 
So many years from his due. ' 

'Nay now, my child,' said Alice the 
nurse, 
' But keep the secret for your life, 
And all you have will be Lord Ro- 
nald's, 
When you are man and wife/ 

' If I 'm a beggar born,' she said, 
' I will speak out, for I dare not 
lie. 
Pull off, pull off, the brooch of gold, 
And fling the diamond necklace 
by.' " 40 

'Nay now, my child/ said Alice t la- 
nurse, 

'But keep the secret all ye can.' 
She said, 'Not so; but I will know 

If there be any faith in man.' 

'Nay now, what faith?' said Alice 
the nurse; 

'The man will cleave unto bis right/ 
1 And he shall have it/ the lady replied. 

'Tho' I should die to-night/ 



142 



ENGLISH IDYLS AND OTHER POEMS 



'Yet give one kiss to your mother 
dear ! 49 

Alas, my child, I sitin'd for thee ! ' 
'O mother, mother, mother/ she said, 

' So strange it seems to me. 

' Yet here's a kiss for my mother dear, 
My mother dear, if this be so, 

And lay your hand upon my head, 
And bless me, mother, ere I go/ 

She clad herself in a russet gown, 
She was no longer Lady Clare ; 

She went by dale, and she went by 
down, 
With a single rose in her hair. 60 

The lily-white doe Lord Ronald had 
brought 

Leapt up from where she lay, 
Dropt her head in the maiden's hand, 

And follow' d her all the way. 

Down stept Lord Ronald from his 
tower : 
'O Lady Clare, you shame your 
worth ! 
Why come you drest like a village 
maid, 
That are the flower of the earth ? ' 

' If I come drest like a village maid, 
I am but as my fortunes are ; 70 

I am a beggar born,' she said, 
'And not the Lady Clare.' 

' Play me no tricks,' said Lord Ronald, 
' For I am yours in word and in deed. 

Play me no tricks,' said Lord Ronald, 
' Your riddle is hard to read. ' 

O, and proudly stood she up ! 

Her heart within her did not fail ; 
She look'd into Lord Ronald's eyes, 

And told him all her nurse's tale. 80 

He laugh'd a laugh of merry scorn ; 

He turn'd and kiss'd her where she 
stood ; 
' If you are not the heiress born, 

And I,' said he, ' the next in blood, — 

' If you are not the heiress born, 
And I,' said he, ' the lawful heir, 

We two will wed to-morrow morn, 
And you shall still be Lady Clare.' 



THE CAPTAIN 

A LEGEND OF THE NAVY 

He that only rules by terror 

Doeth grievous wrong. 
Deep as hell I count his error. 

Let him hear my song. 
Brave the Captain was ; the seamen 

Made a gallant crew, 
Gallant sons of English freemen, 

Sailors bold and true. 
But they hated his oppression ; 

Stern he was and rash, 10 

So for every light transgression 

Doom'd them to the lash. 
Day by day more harsh and cruel 

Seem'd the Captain's mood. 
Secret wrath like smother' d fuel 

Burnt in each man's blood. 
Yet he hoped to purchase glory, 

Hoped to make the name 
Of his vessel great in story, 

Wheresoe'er he came. 20 

So they past by capes and islands, 

Many a harbor-mouth, 
Sailing under palmy highlands 

Far within the South. 
On a day when they were going 

O'er the lone expanse, 
In the north, her canvas flowing, 

Rose a ship of France. 
Then the Captain's color heighten'd, 

Joyful came his speech ; 30 

But a cloudy gladness lighten' d 

In the eyes of each. 
' Chase,' he said ; the ship flew forward, 

And the wind did blow ; 
Stately, lightly, went she norward, 

Till she near'd the foe. 
Then they look'd at him they hated, 

Had what they desired ; 
Mute with folded arms they waited — 

Not a gun was fired. 40 

But they heard the foeman's thunder 

Roaring out their doom ; 
All the air was torn in sunder, 

Crashing went the boom, 
Spars were splinter'd, decks were 
shatter'd, 

Bullets fell like rain ; 
Over mast and deck were scatter' d 

Blood and brains of men. 
Spars were splinter'd ; decks were 
broken ; 

Every mother's son — 50 



THE LORD OF BURLEIGH 



H3 



Down they dropt — no word was 
spoken — 

Each beside his gun. 
On the decks as they were lying, 

Were their faces grim. 
In their blood, as they lay dying, 

Did they smile on him. 
Those in whom he had reliance 

For his noble name 
With one smile of still defiance 

Sold him unto shame. 60 

Shame and wrath his heart confounded, 

Pale he turn'd and red, 
Till himself was deadly wounded 

Falling on the dead. 
Dismal error ! fearful slaughter ! 

Years have wander'd by ; 
Side by side beneath the water 

Crew and Captain lie ; 
There the sunlit ocean tosses 

O'er them mouldering, 7 o 

And the lonely seabird crosses 

With one waft of the wing. 



THE LORD OF BURLEIGH 

In her ear he whispers gaily, 

' If my heart by signs can tell, 
Maiden, I have watch' d thee daily, 

And I think thou lov'st me well.' 
She replies, in accents fainter, 

' There is none I love like thee. ' 
He is but a landscape-painter, 

And a village maiden she. 
He to lips that fondly falter 

Presses his without reproof, 10 

Leads her to the village altar, 

And they leave her father's roof. 
' I can make no marriage present ; 

Little can I give my wife. 
Love will make our cottage pleas- 
ant, 

And I love thee more than life. ' 
They by parks and lodges going 

See the lordly castles stand ; 
Summer woods, about them blowing, 

Made a murmur in the land. 20 




* Bring the dress and put it on her, 
That she wore when she was wed ' 



144 



ENGLISH IDYLS AND OTHER POEMS 



From deep thought himself he rouses, 

Says to her that loves him well, 
' Let us see these handsome houses 

Where the wealthy nobles dwell/ 
So she goes by him attended, 

Hears him lovingly converse, 
Sees whatever fairand splendid 

Lay betwixt his home and hers ; 
Parks with oak and chestnut shady, 

Parks and order'd gardens great, 30 
Ancient homes df lord and lady, 

Built for pleasure and for state. 
All he shows her makes him dearer ; 

Evermore she seems to gaze 
On that cottage growing nearer, 

Where they twain will spend their 
days. 
O, but she will love him truly ! 

He shall have a cheerful home , 
She will order all things duly, 

When beneath his roof they come. 40 
Thus her heart rejoices greatly, 

Till a gateway she discerns 
With armorial bearings stately, 

And beneath the gate she turns, 
Sees a mansion more majestic 

Than all those she saw before. 
Many a gallant gay domestic 

Bows before him at the door ; 
And they speak in gentle murmur, 

When they answer to his call, 50 
While he treads with footstep firmer, 

Leading on from hall to hall. 
And, while now she wonders blindly, 

Nor the meaning can divine, 
Proudly turns he round and kindly, 

' All of this is mine and thine.' 
Here he lives in state and bounty, 

Lord of Burleigh, fair and free ; 
Not a lord in all the county 

Is so great a lord as he. • 60 

All at once the color flushes 

Her sweet face from brow to 
chin ; 
As it were with shame she blushes, 

And her spirit changed within. 
Then her countenance all over 

Pale again as death did prove ; 
But he clasp'd her like a lover, 

And he cheer' d her soul with 
love. 
So she strove against her weakness, 

Tho' at times her spirit sank, 70 

Shaped her heart with woman's meek- 
ness 

To all duties of her rank ; 



And a gentle consort made he, 

And her gentle mind was such 
That she grew a noble lady, 

And the people loved her much. 
But a trouble weigh'd upon her, 

And perplex'd her, night and morn, 
With the burthen of an honor 

Unto which she was not born. 80 
Faint she grew, and ever fainter, 

And she murmur' d, ' O, that he 
Were once more that landscape-painter 

Which did win my heart from 
me!' 
So she droop'd and droop' d before 
him, 

Fading slowly from his side ; 
Three fair children first she bore 
him, 

Then before her time she died. 
Weeping, weeping late and early, 

Walking up and pacing down, 90 
Deeply mourn'd the Lord of Burleigh, 

Burleigh-house by Stamford-town. 
And he came to look upon her, 

And he look'd at her and said, 
' Bring the dress and put it on her, 

That she wore when she was wed.' 
Then her people, softly treading, 

Bore to earth her body, drest 
In the dress that she was wed in, 

That her spirit might have rest. 100 



THE VOYAGE 



We left behind the painted buoy 

That tosses at the harbor-mouth ; 
And madly danced our hearts with j oy, 

As fast we fleeted to the south. 
How fresh was every sight and sound 

On open main or winding shore ! 
We knew the merry world was round, 

And we might sail for evermore. 

11 
Warm broke the breeze against the 
brow, 
Dry sang the tackle, sang the sail ; 10 
The Lady's-head upon the prow 
Caught the shrill salt, and sheer'd 
the gale. 
The broad seas swell'd to meet the keel, 
And swept behind ; so quick the run, 
We felt the good ship shake and reel, 
We seem'd to sail into the sun ! 



THE VOYAGE 



!45 



in 
How oft we saw the sun retire, 

And burn the threshold of the night, 
Fall from his Ocean-lane of fire, 

And sleep beneath his pill ar'd light ! 
How oft the purple-skirted robe 21 

Of twilight slowly downward drawn, 
As thro' the slumber of the globe 
• Again we dash'd into the dawn ! 

IV 

New stars all night above the brim 

Of waters lighten'd into view ; 
They climb'd as quickly, for the rim 

Changed every moment as we flew. 
Far ran the naked moon across 

The houseless ocean's heaving field. 
Or flying shone, the silver boss 31 

Of her own halo's dusky shield. 



The peaky islet shifted shapes, 

High towns on hills were dimly 
seen ; 
We past long lines of Northern capes 

And dewy Northern meadows green. 
We came to warmer waves, and deep 

Across the boundless east we drove, 

Where those long swells of breaker 

sweep 39 

The nutmeg rocks and isles of clove. 

VI 

By peaks that flamed, or, all in shade, 

Gloom'd the low coast and quivering 
brine 
With ashy rains, that spreading made 

Fantastic plume or sable pine ; 
By sands and steaming flats, and floods 

Of mighty mouth, we scudded fast, 
And hills and scarlet-mingled woods 

Glow'd for a moment as we past. 



O hundred shores of happy climes, 
How swiftly stream'd ye by the 
bark ! 5° 

At times the whole sea burn'd, at 
times 
With wakes of fire we tore the dark ; 
At times a carven craft would shoot 
From havens hid in fairy bowers, 
With naked limbs and flowers and 
fruit, 
But we nor paused for fruit nor 
flowers. 



For one fair Vision ever fled 

Down the waste waters day and 
night, 
And still we f ollow'd where she led, 

In hope to gain upon her flight. 60 
Her face was evermore unseen, 

And fixt upon the far sea-line ; 
But each man murmur'd, ' O my 
Queen, 

I follow till I make thee mine.' 



And now we lost her, now she gleam' d 

Like Fancy made of golden air, 
Now nearer to the prow she seem'd 

Like Virtue firm, like Knowledge 
fair, 
Now high on waves that idly burst 

Like Heavenly Hope she crown'd the 

sea, 70 

And now, the bloodless point reversed, 

She bore the blade of Liberty. 



And only one among us — him 

We pleased not — he was seldom 
pleased ; 
He saw not far, his eyes were dim, 

But ours he swore were all diseased. 
' A ship of fools,' he shriek'd in spite, 

' A ship of fools,' he sneer'd and wept. 
And overboard one stormy night 

He cast his body, and on we swept. 



And never sail of ours was fmTd, s- 

Nor anchor dropt at eve or morn ; 
We loved the glories of the world, 

But laws of nature were our scorn. 
For blasts would rise and rave and 
cease, 

But whence were those that drove 
the sail 
Across the whirlwind's heart of peace, 

And to and thro' the counter gale 1 



Again to colder climes we came, 

For still Ave follow'd where she li 
Now mate is blind and captain lame. 

And half the crew are sick or dead, 
But, blind or lame or sick or sound. 

We follow that which flies before ; 
We know the merry world is round, 

And we may sail" for evermore. 



146 



ENGLISH IDYLS AND OTHER POEMS 



SIR LAUNCELOT AND QUEEN 
GUINEVERE 

A FRAGMENT 

Like souls that balance joy and pain, 
With tears and smiles from heaven 

again 
The maiden Spring upon the plain 
Came in a sunlit fall of rain. 

In crystal vapor everywhere 
Blue isles of heaven laugh' d between, 
And far, in forest-deeps unseen, 
The topmost elm-tree gather' d green 

From draughts of balmy air. 

Sometimes the linnet piped his song ; 
Sometimes the throstle whistled 

strong ; 
Sometimes the sparhawk, wheel'd 

along. 
Hush'd all the groves from fear of 
wrong ; 
By grassy capes with fuller sound 
In curves the yellowing river ran. 
And drooping chestnut-buds began 
To spread into the perfect fan, 
Above the teeming ground. 

Then, in the boyhood of the year, . 
Sir Launcelot and Queen Guinevere 
Rode thro' the coverts of the deer, 
With blissful treble ringing clear. 

She seem'd a part of joyous 
Spring ; 
A gown of grass- green silk she wore, 
Buckled with golden clasps before ; 
A light-green tuft of plumes she bore 

Closed in a golden ring. 

Now on some twisted ivy-net, 

Now by some tinkling rivulet, 

In mosses mixt with violet 

Her cream-white mule his pastern 

set ; 
And fleeter now she skimm'd the 

plains 
Than she whose elfin prancer springs 
By night to eery warblings, 
When all the glimmering moorland 

rings 
With jingling bridle-reins. 

As she fled fast thro' sun and shade 
The happy winds upon her play'd, 
Blowing the ringlet from the braid. 



She look'd so lovely, as she sway'd 

The rein with dainty finger-tips, 
A man had given all other bliss, 
And all his worldly worth for this. 
To waste his whole heart in one kiss 
Upon her perfect lips. 



A FAREWELL 

Flow down, cold rivulet, to the sea, 
Thy tribute wave deliver ; 

No more by thee my steps shall be, 
For ever and for ever. 

Flow, softly flow, by lawn and lea, 

A rivulet, then a river ; 
Nowhere by thee my steps shall be, 

For ever and for ever. 

But here will sigh thine alder-tree, 
And here thine aspen shiver ; 

And here by thee, will hum the bee, 
For ever and for ever. 

A thousand suns will stream on thee, 
A thousand moons will quiver ; 

But not by thee my steps shall be, 
For ever and for ever. 



THE EAGLE 

FRAGMENT 

He clasps the crag with crooked 

hands ; 
Close to the sun in lonely lands, 
Ring'd with the azure world, he 

stands. 

The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls ; 
He watches from his mountain walls, 
And like a thunderbolt he falls. 



MOVE 



EASTWARD, 
EARTH' 



HAPPY 



Move eastward, happy earth, and leave 
Yon orange sunset waning slow ; 

From fringes of the faded eve, 
O happy planet, eastward go, 

Till over thy dark shoulder glow 
Thy silver sister-world, and rise 
To glass herself in dewy eyes 

That watch me from the glen below. 




COME NOT, WHEN I AM DEAD' 



'47 




' In robe and crown the king stept down, 
To meet and greet her on her way ' 



Ah, bear me with thee, smoothly 
borne, 

Dip forward under starry light, 
And move me to my marriage-morn. 

And round again to happy night. 



THE BEGGAR MAID 

Her arms across her breast she laid ; 

She was more fair than words can 
say ; 
Barefooted came the beggar maid 

Before the king Cophetua. 
In robe and crown the king stept 
down, 

To meet and greet her on her way ; 
'It is no wonder,' said the lords, 

'She is more beautiful than day.' 



As shines the moon in clouded skies. 

She in her poor attire was seen ; 
One praised her ankles, one her ej 

One her dark hair and lovesome 
mien. 
So sweet a face, such angel grace. 

In all that land had never been. 
Cophetua sware a royal oath : 

'This beggar maid shall be my 
queen ! ' 

' COME NOT, WHEN I AM DEAD 

Come not, when I am dead, 

To drop thy foolish tears upon my 
grave. 
To trample round my fallen head, 
And vex the unhappy dust thoa 
would st not save. 



148 



ENGLISH IDYLS AND OTHER POEMS 



There let the wind sweep and the 
plover cry ; 

But thou, go by. 

Child, if it were thine error or thy 
crime 
I care no longer, being all unblest : 
Wed whom thou wilt, but I am sick 
of time, 
And I desire to rest. 
Pass on, weak heart, and leave me 
where I lie ; 

Go by, go by. 



THE LETTERS 



Still on the tower stood the vane, 

A black yew gloom'd the stagnant 
air ; 
I peer'd athwart the chancel pane 

And saw the altar cold and bare. 
A clog of lead was round my feet, 

A band of pain across my brow ; 
'Cold altar, heaven and earth shall 
meet 

Before you hear my marriage vow/ 



I turn'd and humm'd a bitter song 

That mock'd the wholesome human 
heart, 
And then we met in wrath and wrong, 

We met, but only meant to part. 
Full cold my greeting was and dry ; 

She faintly smiled, she hardly 
moved ; 
I saw with half-unconscious eye 

She wore the colors I approved. 



She took the little ivory chest, 

With half a sigh she turn'd the key, 
Then raised her head with lips com- 
prest, 

And gave my letters back to me ; 
And gave the trinkets and the rings, 

My gifts, when gifts of mine could 
please. 
As looks a father on the things 

Of his dead son, I look'd on these. 

IV 

She told me all her friends had said ; 
I raged against the public liar ; 



She talk'd as if her love were dead, 
But in my words were seeds of 
fire. 

' No more of love, your sex is known ; 
I never will be twice deceived. 

Henceforth I trust the man alone, 
The woman cannot be believed. 



'Thro' slander, meanest spawn of 
hell, — 

And women's slander is the worst, — 
And you, whom once I loved so well, 

Thro' you my life will be accurst.' 
I spoke with heart and heat and force, 

I shook her breast with vague 
alarms — 
Like torrents from a mountain source 

We rush'd into each other's arms. 



We parted ; sweetly gleam'd the stars, 

And sweet the vapor-braided blue ; 
Low breezes fann'd the belfry bars, 

As homeward by the church I drew. 
The very graves appear'd to smile, 

So fresh they rose in shadow'd swells; 
'Dark porch,' I said, 'and silent aisle, 

There comes a sound of marriage 
bells.' 



THE VISION OF SIN 



I had a vision when the night was 

late ; 
A youth came riding toward a palace- 
gate. 
He rode a horse with wings, that 

would have flown, 
But that his heavy rider kept him 

down. 
And from the palace came a child of 

sin, 
And took him by the curls, and led 

him in, 
Where sat a company with heated 

eyes, 
Expecting when a fountain should 

arise. 
A sleepy light upon their brows and 

lips — 
As when the sun, a crescent of eclipse, 
Dreams over lake and lawn, and isles 

and capes — n 



THE VISION OF SIN 



[49 



Suffused them, sitting, lying, languid 

shapes, 
By heaps of gourds, and skins of wine, 

and piles of grapes. 

11 
Then methought I heard a mellow 

sound, 
Gathering up from all the lower 

ground ; 
Narrowing in to where they sat as- 
sembled, 
Low voluptuous music winding trem- 
bled, 
Woven in circles. They that heard it 

sigh'd, 

Panted hand -in-hand with faces pale, 

Swung themselves, and in low tones 

replied ; 20 

Till the fountain spouted, showering 

wide 
Sleet of diamond-drift and pearly hail. 
Then the music touch'd the gates and 

died, 
Rose again from where it seem'd to 

fail, 
Storm' d in orbs of song, a growing 

gale; 
Till thronging in and in, to where 

they waited, 
As 't were a hundred -throated night- 
ingale, 
The strong tempestuous treble throbb'd 

and palpitated ; 
Ran into its giddiest whirl of sound, 
Caught the sparkles, and in circles, 30 
Purple gauzes, golden hazes, liquid 

mazes, 
Flung the torrent rainbow round. 
Then they started from their places, 
Moved with violence, changed in hue, 
Caught each other with wild grimaces, 
Half -invisible to the view", 
Wheeling with precipitate paces 
To the melody, till they flew, 
Hair and eyes and limbs and faces, 
Twisted hard in fierce embraces, 40 
Like to Furies, like to Graces, 
Dash'd together in blinding dew ; 
Till, kill'd with some luxurious agony, 
The nerve-dissolving melody 
Flutter'd headlong from the sky. 

in 
And then I look'd up toward a moun- 
tain-tract, 



That girt the -region with high cliff 

and lawn. 
I saw that every morning, far with- 
drawn 
Beyond the darkness and the cataract, 
God made Himself an awful rose of 

dawn, 5 o 

Unheeded; and detaching, fold by 

fold, 
From those still heights, and, slowly 

drawing near, 
A vapor heavy, hueless, formless, 

cold, 
Came floating on for many a month 

and year, 
Unheeded; and I thought I would 

have spoken, 
And warn'd that madman ere it grew 

too late, 
But, as in dreams, I could not. Mine 

was broken, 
When that cold vapor touch'd the 

palace-gate, 
And link'd again. I saw within my 

head 
A gray and gap-tooth'd man as lean 

as death, 60 

Who slowly rode across a wither'd 

heath, 
And lighted at a ruin'd inn, and said : 



' Wrinkled ostler, grim and thin ! 

Here is custom come your way ; 
Take my brute, and lead him in, 

Stuff his ribs with mouldy hay. 

1 Bitter barmaid, waning fast ! 

See that sheets are on my bed. 
What ! the flower of life is past ; 

It is long before you wed. 7 o 

' Slip-shod waiter, lank and sour, 
At the Dragon on the heath ! 

Let us have a quiet hour, 

Let us hob-and-nob with Death. 

' I am old, but let me drink ; 

Bring me spices, bring- me wine ; 
I remember, when I think. 

That my youth was half divine. 

'Wine is good for shrivell'd lips. 
When a" blanket wraps the day, 

When the rotten woodland drips, 
And the leaf is stamp'd in clay. 



*5 



ENGLISH IDYLS AND OTHER POEMS 



' Sit thee down, and have no shame, 
Cheek by jowl, and knee by knee ; 

What care I for any name ? 
What for order or degree ? 

' Let me screw thee up a peg ; 

Let me loose thy tongue with wine ; 
Call est thou that thing a leg ? 

Which is thinnest ? thine or mine ? 

' Thou shalt not be saved by works, 91 
Thou hast been a sinner too ; 

Ruind trunks on wither' d forks, 
Empty scarecrows, I and you ! 

' Fill the cup and fill the can, 
Have a rouse before the morn ; 

Every moment dies a man, 
Every moment one is born. 

' We are men of ruin'd blood ; 

Therefore comes it we are wise. 100 
Fish are we that love the mud, 

Rising to no fancy-flies. 

* Name and fame ! to fly sublime 

Thro' the courts, the camps, the 
schools, 
Is to be the ball of Time, 
Bandied by the hands of fools. 

' Friendship ! — to be two in one — 

Let the canting liar pack ! 
Well I know, when I am gone, 

How she mouths behind my back. 

' Virtue ! — to be good and 3 ust — 1 1 1 
Every heart, when sifted well, 

Is a clot of warmer dust, 
Mix'd with cunning sparks of hell. 

* O, we two as well can look 

Whited thought and cleanly life 
As the priest, above his book 
Leering at his neighbor's wife. 

' Fill the cup and fill the can, 
Have a rouse before the morn : 120 

Every moment dies a man, 
Every moment one is born. 

' Drink, and let the parties rave ; 

They are fill'd with idle spleen, 
Rising, falling, like a wave, 

For they know not what they mean. 



' He that roars for liberty 
Faster binds a tyrant's power, 

And the tyrant's cruel glee 
Forces on the freer hour. 130 

1 Fill the can and fill the cup ; 

All the windy ways of men 
Are but dust that rises up, 

And is lightly laid again. 

' Greet her with applausive breath, 
Freedom, gaily doth she tread ; 

In her right a civic wreath, 
In her left a human head. 

' No, I love not what is new ; 

She is of an ancient house, 140 

And I think we know the hue 

Of that cap upon her brows. 

' Let her go ! her thirst she slakes 
Where the bloody conduit runs, 

Then her sweetest meal she makes 
On the first-born of her sons. 

' Drink to lofty hopes that cool, — 
Visions of a perfect State ; 

Drink we, last, the public fool, 

Frantic love and frantic hate. 15c 

' Chant me now some wicked stave, 
Till thy drooping courage rise, 

And the glow-worm of the grave 
Glimmer in thy rheumy eyes. 

' Fear not thou to loose thy tongue, 
Set thy hoary fancies free ; 

What is loathsome to the young 
Savors well to thee and me. 

1 Change, reverting to the years, 
When thy nerves could under- 
stand 160 

What there is in loving tears, 
And the warmth of hand in hand. 

1 Tell me tales of thy first love — 
April hopes, the fools of chance — 

Till the graves begin to move, 
And the dead begin to dance. 

' Fill the can and fill the cup ; 

All the windy ways of men 
Are but dust that rises up, 

And is lightly laid again. 170 



TO 

' Trooping from their mouldy dens 
The chap-fallen circle spreads — 

Welcome, fellow-citizens, 
Hollow hearts and empty heads ! 

' You are bones, and what of that ? 

Every face, however full, 
Padded round with flesh and fat, 

Is but modell'd on a skull. 

' Death is king, and Vivat Kex ! 

Tread a measure on the stones, 180 
Madam — if I know your sex 

From the fashion of your bones. 

1 No, I cannot praise the fire 
In your eye — nor yet your lip ; 

All the more do I admire 

Joints of cunning workmanship. 



- the ground 
glazed, 



nor 



' Lo ! God's likeness 
plan — 
Neither modell'd, 
framed ; 

Buss me, thou rough sketch of man, 
Far too naked to be shamed ! 190 

' Drink to Fortune, drink to Chance, 
While we keep a little breath ! 

Drink to heavy Ignorance ! 
Hob-and-nob with brother Death ! 

' Thou art mazed, the night is long, 
And the longer night is near — 

What ! I am not all as wrong 
As a bitter jest is dear. 

* Youthful hopes, by scores, to all, 
When the locks are crisp and curl'd ; 

Unto me my maudlin gall 201 

And my mockeries of the world. 

' Fill the cup and fill the can ; 

Mingle madness, mingle scorn I 
Dregs of life, and lees of man ; 

Yet we will not die forlorn.' 



The voice grew faint; there came a 
further change ; 

Once more uprose the mystic moun- 
tain-range. 

Below were men and horses pierced 
with worms, 

And slowly quickening into lower 
forms ; 210 



'5 1 

By shards and scurf of salt, and scum 
of dross, 

Old plash of rains, and refuse patch'd 
with moss. 

Then some one spake : ' Behold ! it 
was a crime 

Of sense avenged by sense that wore 
with time. ' 

Another said: 'The crime of sense be- 
came 

The crime of malice, and is equal 
blame. ' 

And one : ' He had not wholly quench'd 
his power ; 

A little grain of conscience made him 
sour.' 

At last I heard a voice upon the 
slope 

Cry to the summit, 'Is there any 
hope ? ' 220 

To which an answer peal'd from that 
high land, 

But in a tongue no man could under- 
stand ; 

And on the glimmering limit far with- 
drawn 

God made Himself an awful rose of 
dawn. 



TO 



AFTER READING A LIFE AND LETTERS 

* Cursed be he that moves my bones.' 

Shakespeare's Epitaph. 

You might have won the Poet's 
name, 
If such be worth the winning 

now, 
And gain'd a laurel for your brow 
Of sounder leaf than I can claim ; 

But you have made the wiser choice, 
A life that moves to gracious 

ends 
Thro' troops of unrecording friends, 

A deedful life, a silent voice. 

And you have miss'd the irreverent 
doom 
Of those that wear the Poet's 

crown ; 
Hereafter, neither knave nor clown 
Shall hold their orgies at your tomb. 



i 5 2 ENGLISH IDYLS AND OTHER POEMS 




' Break, break, break, 

At the foot of thy crags, Sea ! ' 



For now the Poet cannot die, 
Nor leave his music as of old, 
But round him ere he scarce be 
cold 

Begins the scandal and the cry : 

'Proclaim the faults he would not 
show ; 
Break lock and seal, betray the 

trust ; 
Keep nothing sacred, 'tis but just 
The many-headed beast should know.' 

Ah, shameless ! for he did but sing 
A song that pleased us from its 

worth ; 
No public life was his on earth, 

No blazon'd statesman he, nor king. 



He gave the people of his best ; 
His worst he kept, his best he 

gave. 
My Shakespeare's curse on clown 
and knave 
Who will not let his ashes rest ! 

Who make it seem more sweet to 
be 
The little life of bank and brier, 
The bird that pipes his lone de- 
sire 
And dies unheard within his tree, 

Than he that warbles long and loud 
And drops at Glory's temple-gates, 
For whom the carrion vulture waits 

To tear his heart before the crowd ! 



THE POET'S SONG 



1 S3 



TO E. L., ON HIS TRAVELS IN 
GREECE 

Illyrian woodlands, echoing falls 
Of water, sheets of summer glass, 
The long divine Pene'ian pass, 

The vast Akrokeraunian walls, 

Tomohrit, Athos, all things fair, 
With such a pencil, such a pen, 
You shadow forth to distant men, 

I read and felt that I was there. 

And trust me while I turn'cl the page, 
And track'd you still on classic 

. ground, 
I grew in gladness till I found 

My spirits in the golden age. 

For me the torrent ever pour d 
And glisten'd — here and there alone 
The broad-limb'd Gods at random 
thrown 

By fountain-urns ; — and Naiads oar'd 

A glimmering shoulder under gloom 
Of cavern pillars ; on the swell 
The silver lily heaved and fell ; 

And many a slope was rich in bloom, 

From him that on the mountain lea 
By dancing rivulets fed his flocks 
To him who sat upon the rocks 

And fluted to the morning sea. 



'BREAK, BREAK, BREAK' 

Break, break, break, 

On thy cold gray stones, O Sea ! 
And I would that my tongue could 
utter 

The thoughts that arise in me. 

O, well for the fisherman's boy, 

That he shouts with his sister at 
play ! 



O, well for the sailor lad, 

That he sings in his boat on the 
bay ! 

And the stately ships go on 

To their haven under the hill ; 
But O for the touch of a vanish'd 
hand, 
And the sound of a voice that is 
still ! 

Break, break, break, 

At the foot of thy crags, O Sea ! 
But the tender grace of a day that is 
dead 

Will never come back to me. 



THE POET'S SONG 

The rain had fallen, the Poet arose. 
He pass'd by the town and out of 
the street : 
A light wind blew from the gates of 
the sun, 
And waves of shadow went over the 
wheat ; 
And he sat him down in a lonely place, 
And chanted a melody loud and 
sweet, 
That made the wild-swan pause in her 
cloud, 
And the lark drop down at his feet. 

The swallow stopt as he hunted the 

The snake slipt under a spray, 
The wild hawk stood with the down 
on his beak, 
And stared, with his foot on the 
prey; 
And the nightingale thought, ' I have 
sung many songs, 
But never a one so gay, 
For he sings of what the world will 
be 
When the years have died away.' 




' The Abbey-ruin in the park ' 

THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY 



PROLOGUE 

Sik Walter Vivian all a summer's 

day 
Gave his broad lawns until the set of 

sun 
Up to the people ; thither flock'd at 

noon 
His tenants, wife and child, and thither 

half 
The neighboring borough with their 

Institute, 
Of which he was the patron. I was 

there 
From college, visiting the son, — the 

son 



A Walter too, — with others of our set, 
Five others ; we were seven at Vivian- 
place. 

And me that morning Walter show'd 
the house, 10 

Greek, set with busts. From vases in 
the hall 

Flowers of all heavens, and lovelier 
than their names, 

Grew side by side ; and on the pave- 
ment lay 

Carved stones of the Abbey -ruin in the 
park, 

Huge Ammonites, and the first bones 
of Time ; 



PROLOGUE 



!S5 






And on the tables every clime and age 
Jumbled together ; celts and calumets, 
Claymore and snow-shoe, toys in lava, 

fans 

Of sandal, amber, ancient rosaries, 
Laborious orient ivory sphere in 
sphere, 20 

The cursed Malayan crease, and battle- 
clubs 
From the isles of palm ; and higher on 

the walls, 
Betwixt the monstrous horns of elk 

and deer, 
His own forefathers' arms and armor 
hung. 

And ' this/ he said, ' was Hugh's at 

Agincourt ; 
And that was old Sir Ralph's at Asca- 

lon. 
A good knight he ! we keep a chronicle 
With all about him,' — which he 

brought, and I 
Dived in a hoard of tales that dealt 

with knights 
Half -legend, half-historic, counts and 

kings 30 

Who laid about them at their wills 

and died ; 
And mixt with these a lady, one that 

arm'd 
Her own fair head, and sallying thro' 

the gate, 
Had beat her foes with slaughter from 

her walls. 

'O miracle of women,' said the 
book, 

'O noble heart who, being strait-be- 
sieged 

By this wild king to force her to his 
wish, 

Nor bent, nor broke, nor shunn'd a sol- 
dier's death, 

But now when all was lost or seem'd 
as lost — 

Her stature more than mortal in the 
burst 40 

Of sunrise, her arm lifted, eyes on 
fire — 

Brake with a blast of trumpets from 
the gate, 

And, falling on them like a thunder- 
bolt, 

She trampled some beneath her horses' 
heels, 



And some were whelm'd with missiles 

of the wall, 
And some were push'd with lances 

from the rock, 
And part were drown' d within the 

whirling brook ; 

miracle of noble womanhood ! ' 

So sang the gallant glorious chroni- 
cle ; 

And, I all rapt in this, 'Come out,* he 
said, 50 

' To the Abbey ; there is Aunt Eliza- 
beth 

And sister Lilia with the rest.' We 
went — 

1 kept the book and had my finger in 

it — 
Down thro' the park. Strange was the 

sight to me ; 
For all the sloping pasture murmur'd, 

sown 
With happy faces and with holiday. 
There moved the multitude, a thou- 
sand heads ; 
The patient leaders of their Institute 
Taught them with facts. One rear'd 

a font of stone 
And drew, from butts of water on the 

slope, 60 

The fountain of the moment, playing, 

now 
A twisted snake, and now a rain of 

pearls, 
Or steep-up spout whereon the gilded 

ball 
Danced like a wisp; and somewhat 

lower down 
A man with knobs and wires and vials 

fired 
A cannon ; Echo answer'd in her 

sleep 
From hollow fields; and here were 

telescopes 
For azure views ; and there a group 

of girls 
In circle waited, whom the electric 

shock 
Dislink'd with shrieks and laughter ; 

round the lake 7° 

A little clock-work steamer paddling 

plied 
And shook the lilies; perch'd about 

the knolls* 
A dozen angry models jetted steam ; 
A petty railway ran ; a tire-balloon 



156 



THE PRINCESS 



Rose gem-like up before the dusky 

groves 
And dropt a fairy parachute and past ; 
And there thro' twenty posts of tele- 
graph 
They flash' d a saucy message to and fro 
Between the mimic stations ; so that 

sport 
Went hand in hand with science; 

otherwhere 80 

Pure sport ; a herd of boys with clamor 

bowl'd 
And stump' d the wicket ; babies roll'd 

about 
Like tumbled fruit in grass ; and men 

and maids 
Arranged a country dance, and flew 

thro' light 
And shadow, while the twangling 

violin 
Struck up with Soldier-laddie, and 

overhead 
The broad ambrosial aisles of lofty 

lime 
Made noise with bees and breeze from 

end to end. 

Strange was the sight and smacking 

of the time ; 
And long we gazed, but satiated at 

length 90 

Came to the ruins. High-arch'd and 

ivy-claspt, 
Of finest Gothic lighter than a fire, 
Thro' one wide chasm of time and 

frost they gave 
The park, the crowd, the house ; but 

all within 
The sward was trim as any garden 

lawn. 
And here we lit on Aunt Elizabeth, 
And Lilia with the rest, and lady 

friends 
From neighbor seats; and there was 

Ralph himself, 
A broken statue propt against the 

wall, 
As gay as any. Lilia, wild with 

sport, IOO 

Half child, half woman as she was, 

had wound 
A scarf of orange round the stony 

helm, 
And robed the shoulders in a rosy silk, 
That made the old warrior from his 

ivied nook 



Glow like a sunbeam. Near his tomb 

a feast 
Shone, silver-set ; about it lay the 

guests, 
And there we join'd them ; then the 

maiden aunt 
Took this fair day for text, and from 

it preach'd 
An universal culture for the crowd, 
And all things great. But we, un- 

worthier, told no 

Of college : he had climb'd across the 

spikes, 
And he had squeezed himself betwixt 

the bars, 
And he had breathed the Proctor's 

dogs ; and one 
Discuss' d his tutor, rough to com- 
mon men, 
But honeying at the whisper of a 

lord ; 
And one the Master, as a rogue in 

grain 
Veneer' d with sanctimonious theory. 

But while they talk'd, above their 

heads I saw 
The feudal warrior lady-clad ; which 

brought 
My book to mind, and opening this I 

read 120 

Of old Sir Ralph a page or two that 

rang 
With tilt and tourney ; then the tale 

of her 
That drove her foes with slaughter 

from her walls, 
And much I praised her nobleness, 

and 'Where,' 
Ask'd Walter, patting Lilia's head — 

she lay 
Beside him — 'lives there such a wo- 
man now V 

Quick answer'd Lilia : ' There are 

thousands now 
Such women, but convention beats 

them down ; 
It is but bringing up ; no more than 

that. 
You men have done it — how I hate 

you all ! 130 

Ah, were I something great ! I wish 

I were 
Some mighty poetess, I would shame 

you then, 



PROLOGUE 



»S7 






That love to keep us children ! O, I 

wish 
That I were some great princess, I 

would build 
Far off from men a college like a 

man's, 
And I would teach them all that men 

are taught ; 
We are twice as quick ! ' And here 

she shook aside 
The hand that play'd the patron with 

her curls. 

And one said smiling : ' Pretty were 

the sight 
If our old halls could change their 

sex, and flaunt 140 

With prudes for proctors, dowagers 

for deans, 
And sweet girl-graduates in their 

golden hair. 
I think they should not wear our rusty 

gowns, 
But move as rich as Emperor-moths, 

or Ralph 
Who shines so in the corner; yet I 

fear, 
If there were many Lilias in the brood, 
However deep you might embower 

the nest, 
Some boy would spy it.' 

At this upon the sward 
She tapt her tiny silken-sandall'd foot : 
* That 's your light way ; but I would 

make it death 150 

For any male thing but to peep at us. ' 

Petulant she spoke, and at herself 

she laugh' d ; 
A rosebud set with little wilful thorns, 
And sweet as English air could make 

her, she ! 
But Walter hail'd a score of names 

upon her, 
And 'petty Ogress,' and 'ungrateful 

Puss,' 
And swore he long'd at college, only 

long'd, 
All else was well, for she-society. 
They boated and they cricketed ; they 

talk'd 
At wine, in clubs, of art, of politics ; 
They lost their weeks ; they vext the 

souls of deans ; 161 

They rode ; they betted ; made a hun- 
dred friends, 



And caught the blossom of the flying 
terms, 

But miss'd the mignonette of Vivian- 
place, 

The little hearth-flower Lilia. Thus 
he spoke, 

Part banter, part affection. 

'True,' she said, 

' We doubt not that. O, yes, you 
miss'd us much ! 

I'll stake my ruby ring upon it you 
did.' 

She held it out ; and as a parrot 

turns 169 

Up thro' gilt wires a crafty loving eye, 
And takes a lady's finger with all care, 
And bites it for true heart and not for 

harm, 
So he with Lilia's. Daintily she 

shriek' d 
And wrung it. ' Doubt my word 

again ! ' he said. 
' Come, listen ! here is proof that you 

were miss'd : 
We seven stay'd at Christmas up to 

read ; 
And there we took one tutor as to 

read. 
The hard-grain'd Muses of the cube 

and square 
Were out of season ; never man, I 

think, 
So moulder'd in a sinecure as he ; 180 
For while our cloisters echo'd frosty 

feet, 
And our long walks were stript as 

bare as brooms, 
We did but talk you over, pledge you 

all 
In wassail ; often, like as many girls — 
Sick for the hollies and the yews of 

home — 
As many little trifling Lilias — play'd 
Charades and riddles as at Christmas 

here, 
And what's my thought and when and 

where and how, 
And often told a tale from mouth to 

mouth 
As here at Christmas. ' 

She remembered that ; 
A pleasant game, she thought. She 

liked it more 191 

Than magic music, forfeits, all the 

rest. 



i58 



THE PRINCESS 



But these — what kind of tales did 

men tell men, 
She wonder'd, by themselves ? 

A half -disdain 
Perch' d on the pouted blossom of her 

lips ; 
And Walter nodded at me : ' He began, 
The rest would follow, each in turn : 

and so 
We forged a sevenfold story. Kind ? 

what kind ? 
Chimeras, crotchets, Christmas sole- 
cisms ; 
Seven-headed monsters only made to 

kill 200 

Time by the fire in winter.' 

4 Kill him now, 
The tyrant ! kill him in the summer 

too,' 
Said Lilia ; ' Why not now ? ' the 

maiden aunt. 
4 Why not a summer's as a winter's 

• tale? 
A tale for summer as befits the time, 
And something it should be to suit the 

place, 
Heroic, for a hero lies beneath, 
Grave, solemn ! ' 

Walter warp'd his mouth at this 
To something so mock-solemn, that I 

laugh'd, 
And Lilia woke with sudden- shrilling 

mirth 210 

An echo like a ghostly woodpecker 
Hid in the ruins ; till the maiden 

aunt — 
A little sense of wrong had touch' d 

her face 
With color — turn'd to me with 4 As 

you will ; 
Heroic if you will, or what you will, 
Or be yourself your hero if you will.' 

'Take Lilia, then, for heroine,' 

clamor' d he, 
'And make her some great princess, 

six feet high, 
Grand, epic, homicidal ; and be you 219 
The prince to win her ! ' 

4 Then follow me, the prince,' 
I answer'd, 4 each be hero in his turn ! 
Seven and yet one, like shadows in a 

dream. — 
Heroic seems our princess as required — 
But something made to suit with time 

and place, 



A Gothic ruin and a Grecian house, 
A talk of college and of ladies' rights, 
A feudal knight in silken masquerade, 
And, yonder, shrieks and strange ex- 
periments 
For which the good Sir Ralph had 

burnt them all — 
This were a medley ! we should have 

him back 230 

Who told the iC Winter's Tale" to do 

it for us. 
No matter ; we will say whatever 

comes. 
And let the ladies sing us, if they will, 
From time to time, some ballad or 

a song 
To give us breathing-space.' 

So I began, 
And the rest follow'd ; and the women 

sang 
Between the rougher voices of the men, 
Like linnets in the pauses of the wind : 
•And here I give the story and the 

songs. 



A Prince I was, blue-eyed, and fair in 

face, 
Of temper amorous as the first of May, 
With lengths of yellow ringlet, like a 

girl, 
For on my cradle shone the Northern 

star. 

There lived an ancient legend in our 
house. 

Some sorcerer, whom a far-off grand- 
sire burnt 

Because he cast no shadow, had fore- 
told, 

Dying, that none of all our blood 
should know 

The shadow from the substance, and 
that one 

Should come to fight with shadows 
and to fall ; 10 

For so, my mother said, the story ran. 

And, truly, waking dreams were, more 
or less, 

An old and strange affection of the 
house. 

Myself too had weird seizures, Heaven 
knows what ! 

On a sudden in the midst of men and 
day, 




PART FIRST 



J 59 



And while I walk'd and talk'd as here- 
tofore, 

I seem'd to move among a world of 
ghosts, 

And feel myself the shadow of a dream. 

Our great court- Galen poised his gilt- 
head cane, 

And paw'd his beard, and mutter'd 
'catalepsy/ 20 

My mother pitying made a thousand 
prayers. 

My mother was as mild as any saint, 

Half- canonized by all that look'd on 
her, 

So gracious was her tact and tender- 
ness; 

But my good father thought a king a 
king. 

He cared not for the affection of the 
house ; 

He held his sceptre like a pedant's 
wand 

To lash offence, and with long arms 
and hands 

Reach'd out and pick'd offenders from 
the mass 

For judgment. 

Now it chanced that I had been, 

While life was yet in bud and blade, 
betroth' d 31 

To one, a neighboring Princess. She 
to me 

Was proxy- wedded with a bootless calf 

At eight years old ; and still from time 
to time 

Came murmurs of her beauty from the 
South, 

And of her brethren, youths of puis- 
sance ; 

And still I wore her picture by my 
heart, 

And one dark tress ; and all around 
them both 

Sweet thoughts would swarm as bees 
about their queen. 

But when the days drew nigh that I 

should wed, 40 

My father sent ambassadors with furs 
And jewels, gifts, to fetch her. These 

brought back 
A present, a great labor. of the loom ; 
And therewithal an answer vague as 

wind. 
Besides, they saw the king ; he took 

the gifts ; 



He said there was a compact ; that 

was true ; 
But then she had a will ; was he to 

blame ? 
And maiden fancies ; loved to live 

alone 
Among her women ; certain, would not 

wed. 

That morning in the presence room 

I stood 5 o 

With Cyril and with Florian, my two 

friends : 
The first, a gentleman of broken 

means — 
His father's fault — but given to starts 

and bursts 
Of revel ; and the last, my other heart, 
And almost my half-self, for still we 

moved 
Together, twinn'd as horse's ear and 

eye. 

Now, while they spake, I saw my 

father's face 
Grow long and troubled like a rising 

moon, 
Inflamed with wrath. He started on 

his feet, 
Tore the king's letter, snow'd it down, 

and rent 60 

The wonder of the loom thro' warp 

and woof 
From skirt to skirt ; and at the last he 

sware 
That he would send a hundred thou- 
sand men, 
And bring her in a whirlwind ; then he 

chew'd 
The thrice- turn' d cud of wrath, and 

cook'd his spleen, 
Communing with his captains of the 

war. 

At last I spoke : ' My father, let me 
go. 
It cannot be but some gross error lies 
In this report, this answer of a king 
Whom all men rate as kind and hos- 
pitable ; 70 
Or, maybe, I myself, my bride once 

seen, 
Whate'er my grief to rind her less than 

fame, 
May rue the bargain made.' And 
Florian said : 



[6o 



THE PRINCESS 






' I have a sister at the foreign court, 
Who moves about the Princess ; she, 

you know, 
Who wedded with a nobleman from 

thence. 
He, dying lately, left her, as I hear, 
The lady of three castles in that 

land ; 
Thro' her this matter might be sifted 

clean. ' 
And Cyril whisper'd : ' Take me with 

you too.' 80 

Then laughing, ' What if these weird 

seizures come 
Upon you in those lands, and no one 

near 
To point you out the shadow from the 

truth ! 
Take me ; I '11 serve you better in a 

strait ; 
I grate on rusty hinges here.' But 

<No!' 
Roar'd the rough king, ' you shall not ; 

we ourself 
Will crush her pretty maiden fancies 

dead 
In iron gauntlets; break the council 

up.' 

But when the council broke, I rose 

and past 
Thro' the wild woods that hung about 

the town ; 90 

Found a still place, and pluck'd her 

likeness out ; 
Laid it on flowers, and watch'd it 

lying bathed 
In the green gleam of dewy-tassell'd 

trees. 
What were those fancies ? wherefore 

break her troth ? 
Proud look'd the lips ; but while I 

meditated 
A wind arose and rush'd upon the 

South, 
And shook the songs, the whispers, and 

the shrieks 
Of the wild woods together, and a 

Voice 
Went with it, 'Follow, follow, thou 

shalt win.' 

Then, ere the silver sickle of that 
month 100 

Became her golden shield, I stole from 
court 



With Cyril and with Florian, unper- 

ceived, 
Cat-footed thro' the town and half in 

dread 
To hear my father's clamor at our 

backs 
With ' Ho ! ' from some bay-window 

shake the night ; 
But all was quiet. From the bastion' d 

walls 
Like threaded spiders, one by one, we 

dropt, 
And flying reach'd the frontier ; then 

we crost 
To a livelier land ; and so by tilth and 

grange, 
And vines, and blowing bosks of wil- 
derness, no 
We gain'd the mother-city thick with 

towers, 
And in the imperial palace found the 

king. 

His name was Gama ; crack'd and 
small his voice, 

But bland the smile that like a wrin- 
kling wind 

On glassy water drove his cheek in 
lines ; 

A little dry old man, without a star, 

Not like a king. Three days he 
feasted us, 

And on the fourth I spake of why we 
came, 

And my betroth'd. ' You do us, Prince,' 
he said, 

Airing a snowy hand and signet 
. gem, 120 

1 All honor. We remember love our- 
self 

In our sweet youth. There did a com- 
pact pass 

Long summers back, a kind of cere- 
mony — 

I think the year in which our olives 
fail'd. 

I would you had her, Prince, with all 
my heart, 

With my full heart ; but there were 
widows here, 

Two widows, Lady Psyche, Lady 
Blanche ; 

They fed her theories, in and out of 
place 

Maintaining that with equal hus- 
bandry 




• Set in a gleaming river's crescent-cur\e ' 



The woman were an equal to the man. 
They harp'd on this ; with this our 

banquets rang ; 131 

Our dances broke and buzz'd in knots 

of talk ; 
Nothing but this ; my very ears were 

hot 
To hear them. Knowledge, so my 

daughter held, 
Was all in all ; they had but been, she 

thought, 
As children ; they must lose the child, 

assume 
The woman. Then, sir, awful odes 

she wrote, 
Too awful, sure, for what they treated 

of, 
But all she is and does is awful ; odes 
About this losing of the child ; and 

rhymes 140 

And dismal lyrics, prophesying change 
Beyond all reason. These the women 

sang; 



And they that know such things — I 

sought but peace ; 
No critic I — would call them master- 
pieces. 
They master' d me. At last she begg'd 

a boon, 
A certain summer-palace which I have 
Hard by your father's frontier. I said 

no, 
Yet being an easy man, gave it ; and 

there, 
All wild to found an University 
For maidens, on the spur she fled ; and 

more 150 

We know not, — only this: they see no 

men, 
Not even her brother Arac, nor the 

twins 
Her brethren, tho' they love her, look 

upon her 
As on a kind of paragon ; and I — 
Pardon me saying it — were much loth 

to breed 



l62 



THE PRINCESS 



Dispute betwixt myself and mine ; but 

since — 
And I confess with right — you think 

me bound 
In some sort, I can give you letters to 

her ; 
And yet, to speak the truth, I rate 

your chance 
Almost at naked nothing. ' 

Thus the king ; 
And I, tho' nettled that he seem'd to 

slur 161 

With garrulous ease and oily courtesies 
Our formal compact, yet, not less — 

all frets 
But chafing me on fire to find my 

bride — 
Went forth again with both my friends. 

We rode 
Many a long league back to the North. 

At last 
From hills that look'd across a land of 

hope 
We dropt with evening on a rustic 

town 
Set in a gleaming river's crescent- 
curve, 
Close at the boundary of the liberties ; 
There, enter'd an old hostel, call'd 

mine host 171 

To council, plied him with his richest 

wines, 
And show'd the late-writ letters of the 

king. 

He with a long low sibilation, stared 
As blank as death in marble; then 

exclaim'd, 
Averring it was clear against all rules 
For any man to go ; but as his brain 
Began to mellow, 'If the king/ he 

said, 
' Had given us letters, was he bound 

to speak ? 
The king would bear him out ; ' and at 

the last — 180 

The summer of the vine in all his 

veins — 
' No doubt that we might make it 

worth his while. 
She once had past that way ; he heard 

her speak ; 
She scared him ; life ! he never saw 

the like ; 
She look'd as grand as doomsday and 

as grave ! 



And he, he reverenced his liege-lady 

there ; 
He always made a point to post with 

mares ; 
His daughter and his housemaid were 

the boys ; 
The land, he understood, for miles 

about 
Was till'd by women; all the swine 

were sows, 190 

And all the dogs ' — 

But while he jested thus, 
A thought flash'd thro' me which I 

clothed in act, 
Remembering how we three presented 

Maid, 
Or Nymph, or Goddess, at high tide of 

feast, 
In masque or pageant at my father's 

court. 
We sent mine host to purchase female 

gear ; 
He brought it, and himself, a sight to 

shake 
The midriff of despair with laughter, 

holp 
To lace us up, till each in maiden 

plumes 
We rustled ; him we gave a costly 

bribe 200 

To guerdon silence, mounted our good 

steeds, 
And boldly ventured on the liberties. 

We follow' d up the river as we rode, 

And rode till midnight, when the col- 
lege lights 

Began to glitter fire fly -like in copse 

And linden alley ; then we past an 
arch, 

Whereon a woman-statue rose with 
wings 

From four wing'd horses dark against 
the stars, 

And some inscription ran along the 
front, 

But deep in shadow. Further on we 
gain'd 210 

A little street half garden and half 
house, 

But scarce could hear each other speak 
for noise 

Of clocks and chimes, like silver ham- 
mers falling 

On silver anvils, and the splash and 
stir 




PART SECOND 



163 






Of fountains spouted up and shower- 
ing down 

In meshes of the jasmine and the rose ; 

And all about us peal'd the nightin- 
gale, 

Rapt in her song and careless of the 
snare. 

There stood a bust of Pallas for a 

sign, 
By two sphere lamps blazon'd like 

Heaven and Earth 220 

With constellation and with continent, 
Above an entry. Riding in, we call'd ; 
A plump-arm' d ostleress and a stable 

wench 
Came running at the call, and help'd 

us down. 
Then stept a buxom hostess forth, and 

sail'd, 
Full-blown, before us into rooms which 

gave 
Upon a pillar' d porch, the bases lost 
In laurel. Her we ask'd of that and 

this, 
And who were tutors. ' Lady Blanche, ' 

she said, 
'And Lady Psyche.' 'Which was 

prettiest, 230 

Best natured ? ' ' Lady Psyche. ' ' Hers 

are we,' 
One voice, we cried ; and I sat down 

and wrote 
In such a hand as when a field of corn 
Bows all its ears before the roaring 

East: 

'Three ladies of the Northern em- 
pire pray 

Your Highness would enroll them with 
your own, 

As Lady Psyche's pupils.' 

This I seal'd ; 

The seal was Cupid bent above a scroll, 

And o'er his head Uranian Venus hung, 

And raised the blinding bandage from 
his eyes. 240 

I gave the letter to be sent with dawn ; 

And then to bed, where half in doze I 
seem'd 

To float about a glimmering night, and 
watch 

A full sea glazed with muffled moon- 
light swell 

On some dark shore just seen that it 
was rich. 



As thro' the land at eve we went, 

And pluck' d the ripen' d ears, 
We fell out, my wife and I, 
O, we fell out, I know not why, 

And kiss'd again with tears. 25s 

And blessings on the falling out 

That all the more endears, 
When we fall out with those we love 

And kiss again with tears ! 
For when we came where lies the child 

We lost in other years, 
There above the little grave, 
0, there above the little grave, 

We kiss'd again with tears. 



II 



At break of day the College Portress 

came ; 
She brought us academic silks, in hue 
The lilac, with a silken hood to each, 
And zoned with gold ; and now when 

these were on, 
And we as rich as moths from dusk 

cocoons, 
She, curtseying her obeisance, let us 

know 
The Princess Ida waited. Out we 

paced, 
I first, and following thro' the porch 

that sang 
All round with laurel, issued in a court 
Compact of lucid marbles, boss'd with 

lengths 10 

Of classic frieze, with ample awnings 

gay 
Betwixt the pillars, and with great 

urns of flowers. 
The Muses and the Graces, group'd in 

threes, 
Enring'd a billowing fountain in the 

midst, 
And here and there on lattice edges 

lay 
Or book or lute ; but hastily we past, 
And up a flight of stairs into the hall. 

There at a board by tome and paper 
sat, 

With two tame leopards couch'd be- 
side her throne, 19 

All beauty compass'd in a female form. 

The Princess; liker to the inhabitant 

Of some clear planet close upon the 
sun, 

Than our man's earth; such eyes were 
in her head, 



164 



THE PRINCESS 



And so much grace and power, breath- 
ing down 

From over her arch'd brows, with 
every turn 

Lived thro' her to the tips of her long 
hands, 

And to her feet. She rose her height, 
and said : 

1 We give you welcome ; not with- 
out redound 

Of use and glory to yourselves ye come, 

The first-fruits of the stranger ; after- 
time, 30 

And that full voice which circles round 
the grave, 

Will rank you nobly, mingled up with 
me. 

What ! are the ladies of your land so 
tall?' 

'We of the court,' said Cyril. 'From 
the court/ 

She answer'd, 'then ye know the 
Prince ? ' and he : 

' The climax of his age ! as tho' there 
were 

One rose in all the world, your High- 
ness that, 

He worships your ideal.' She replied : 

' We scarcely thought in our own hall 
to hear 

This barren verbiage, current among 
men, 40 

Light coin, the tinsel clink of compli- 
ment. 

Your flight from out your bookless 
wilds would seem 

As arguing love of knowledge and of 
power ; 

Your language proves you still the 
child. Indeed, 

We dream not of him ; when we set 
our hand 

To this great work, we purposed with 
ourself 

Never to wed. You likewise will do 
well, 

Ladies, in entering here, to cast and 
fling 

The tricks which make us toys of 
men, that so 

Some future time, if so indeed you will, 

You may with those self-styled our 
lords ally 51 

Your fortunes, justlier balanced, scale 
with scale.' 



At those high words, we, conscious 
of ourselves, 

Perused the matting ; then an officer 

Rose up, and read the statutes, such 
as these : 

Not for three years to correspond with 
home ; 

Not for three years to cross the liber- 
ties; 

Not for three years to speak with any 
. men ; 

And many more, which hastily sub- 
scribed, 

We enter' d on the boards. And ' Now, ' 
she cried, 60 

' Ye are green wood, see ye warp not. 
Look, our hall ! 

Our statues ! — not of those that men 
desire, 

Sleek Odalisques, or oracles of mode, 

Nor stunted squaws of West or East ; 
but she 

That taught the Sabine how to rule, 
and she 

The foundress of the Babylonian wall, 

The Carian Artemisia strong in war, 

The Rhodope that built the pyramid, 

Clelia, Cornelia, with the Palmyrene 

That fought Aurelian, and the Roman 
brows 70 

Of Agrippina. Dwell with these, and 
lose 

Convention, since to look on noble 
forms 

Makes noble thro' the sensuous organ- 
ism 

That which is higher. O, lift your 
natures up ; 

Embrace our aims ; work out your 
freedom. Girls, 

Knowledge is now no more a fountain 
seal'd ! 

Drink deep, until the habits of the 
slave, 

The sins of emptiness, gossip and spite 

And slander, die. Better not be at all 

Than not be noble. Leave us ; you 
may go. 80 

To-day the Lady Psyche will harangue 

The fresh arrivals of the week before ; 

For they press in from all the pro- 
vinces, 

And fill the hive.' 

She spoke, and bowing waved 

Dismissal ; back again we crost the 
court 






PART SECOND 



165 



To Lady Psyche's. As we enter' d in, 
There sat along the forms, like morn- 
ing doves 
That sun their milky bosoms on the 

thatch, 
A patient range of pupils ; she herself 
Erect behind a desk of satin-wood, 90 
A quick brunette, well-moulded, fal- 
con-eyed, 
And on the hither side, or so she look'd, 
Of twenty summers. At her left, a 

child, 
In shining draperies, headed like a 

star, 
Her maiden babe, a double April old, 
Aglai'a slept. We sat; the lady 

glanced ; 
Then Florian, but no livelier than the 

dame 
That whisper'd 'Asses' ears' among 

the sedge, 
'My sister.' 'Comely, too, by all 

that's fair,' 
Said Cyril. ' O, hush, hush ! ' and she 
began. 100 

' This world was once a fluid haze 

of light, 
Till toward the centre set the starry 

tides, 
And eddied into suns, that wheeling 

cast 
The planets ; then the monster, then 

the man ; 
Tattoo'd or woaded, winter-clad in 

skins, 
Raw from the prime, and crushing 

down his mate, 
As yet we find in barbarous isles, and 

here 
Among the lowest.' 

Thereupon she took 
A bird's-eye view of all the ungracious 

past; 
Glanced at the legendary Amazon no 
As emblematic of a nobler age ; 
Appraised the Lycian custom, spoke 

of those 
That lay at wine with Lar and Lu- 

cumo ; 
Ran down the Persian, Grecian, Roman 

lines 
Of empire, and the woman's state in 

each, 
How far from just; till warming with 

her theme 



She fulmined out her scorn of laws 

Salique 
And little-footed China, touch'd on 

Mahomet 
With much contempt, and came to 

chivalry, 
When some respect, however slight, 

was paid I2 q 

To woman, superstition all awry. 
However, then commenced the dawn ; 

a beam 
Had slanted forward, falling in a 

land 
Of promise ; fruit would follow. Deep, 

indeed, 
Their debt of thanks to her who first 

had dared 
To leap the rotten pales of prejudice, 
Disyoke their necks from custom, and 

assert 
None lordlier than themselves but 

that which made 
Woman and man. She had founded ; 

they must build. 
Here might they learn whatever men 

were taught. 130 

Let them not fear, some said their 

heads were less ; 
Some men's were small, not they the 

least of men ; 
For often fineness compensated size. 
Besides the brain was like the hand, 

and grew 
With using ; thence the man's, if more 

was more. 
He took advantage of his strength to 

be 
First in the field ; some ages had been 

lost; 
But woman ripen'd earlier, and her 

life 
Was longer ; and albeit their glorious 

names 
Were fewer, scatter'd stars, yet since 

in truth 140 

The highest is the measure of the man, 
And not the Kaffir, Hottentot, Malay, 
Nor those horn- handed breakers of 

the glebe, 
But Homer, Plato, Verulam, even so 
With woman; and in arts of govern- 
ment 
Elizabeth and others, arts o\' war 
The peasant Joan and others, arts of 

grace 
Sappho and others vied with any man ; 



i66 



THE PRINCESS 



And, last not least, she who had left 

her place, 
And bow'd her state to them, that 

they might grow 150 

To use and power on this oasis, lapt 
In the arms of leisure, sacred from 

the blight 
Of ancient influence and scorn. 

At last 
She rose upon a wind of prophecy 
Dilating on the future : ' everywhere 
Two heads in council, two beside the 

hearth, 
Two in the tangled business of the 

world, 
Two in the liberal offices of life, 
Two plummets dropt for one to sound 

the abyss 
Of science and the secrets of the mind ; 
Musician, painter, sculptor, critic, 

more ; 161 

And everywhere the broad and boun- 
teous Earth 
Should bear a double growth of those 

rare souls, 
Poets, whose thoughts enrich the blood 

of the world.' 

She ended here, and beckon'd us ; 
the rest 

Parted ; and, glowing full-faced wel- 
come, she 

Began to address us, and was moving 
on 

In gratulation, till as when a boat 

Tacks and th.e slacken'd sail flaps, all 
her voice 

Faltering and fluttering in her throat, 
she cried, 170 

'My brother!' 'Well, my sister.' 
' O,' she said, 

' What do you here ? and in this dress ? 
and these ? 

Why, who are these ? a wolf within 
the fold ! 

A pack of wolves! the Lord be gra- 
cious to me ! 

A plot, a plot, a plot, to ruin all ! ' 

'No plot, no plot,' he answer'd. 
'Wretched boy, 

How saw you not the inscription on 
the gate, 

Let no man enter in on pain of 

DEATH ? ' 

'And if I had,' he answer'd, 'who 
could think 



The softer Adams of your Academe, 

sister, Sirens tho' they be, were 

such 181 

As chanted on the blanching bones of 

men ? ' 
' But you will find it otherwise,' she 

said. 
' You jest ; ill jesting with edge-tools ! 

my vow 
Binds me to speak, and O that iron will, 
That axelike edge unturnable, our 

Head, 
The Princess ! ' ' Well then, Psyche, 

take my life, 
And nail me like a weasel on a grange 
For warning ; bury me beside the gate, 
And cut this epitaph above my bones : 
Here lies a brother by a sister slain, 191 
All for the common good of wo/nankind. ' 
'Let me die too,' said Cyril, 'having 

seen 
And heard the Lady Psyche.' 

I struck in : 
' Albeit so mask'd, madam, I love the 

truth ; 
Receive it, and in me behold the Prince 
Your countryman, affianced years ago 
To the Lady Ida. Here, for here she 

was, 
And thus — what other way was left ? 

— I came.' 
'O sir, O Prince, I have no country, 

none ; 200 

If any, this; but none. Whate'er I 

was 
Disrooted, what I am is grafted here. 
Affianced, sir ? love-whispers may not 

breathe 
Within this vestal limit, and how 

should I, 
Who am not mine, say, live ? The 

thunderbolt 
Hangs silent ; but prepare. I speak, 

it falls.' 
' Yet pause,' I said : ' for that inscrip- 
tion there, 

1 think no more of deadly lurks 

therein, 
Than in a clapper clapping in a garth, 
To scare the fowl from fruit ; if more 

there be, 210 

If more and acted on, what follows ? 

war; 
Your own work marr'd ; for this your 

Academe, 
Whichever side be victor, in the halloo 



PART SECOND 



167 



Will topple to the trumpet down, and 
pass 

With all fair theories only made to 
gild 

A stormless summer/ ' Let the Prin- 
cess judge 

Of that/ she said: ' farewell, sir — and 
to you. 

I shudder at the sequel, but I go/ 

'Are you that Lady Psyche/ I re- 
join' d, 
'The fifth in line from that old Flo- 

rian, 220 

Yet hangs his portrait in my father's 

hall — 
The gaunt old baron with his beetle 

brow 
Sun-shaded in the heat of dusty 

fights — 
As he bestrode my grandsire, when he 

fell, 
And all else fled ? we point to it, and 

we say, 
The loyal warmth of Florian is not 

cold, 
But branches current yet in kindred 

veins/ 
' Are you that Psyche,' Florian added ; 

'she 
With whom I sang about the morning 

hills, 
Flung ball, flew kite, and raced the 

purple fly, 230 

And snared the squirrel of the glen ? 

are you 
That Psyche, wont to bind my throb- 
bing brow, 
To smooth my pillow, mix the foaming 

draught 
Of fever, tell me pleasant tales, and 

read 
My sickness down to happy dreams ? 

are you 
That brother-sister Psyche, both in 

one ? 
You were that Psyche, but what are 

you now ? ' 
' You are that Psyche/ Cyril said, ' for 

whom 
I would be that forever which I seem, 
Woman, if I might sit beside your 

feet, 240 

And glean your scatter'd sapience/ 

Then once more, 
' Are you that Lady Psyche,' I began, 



' That on her bridal morn before she 

past 
From all her old companions, when 

the king 
Kiss'd her pale cheek, declared that 

ancient ties 
Would still be dear beyond the south- 
ern hills ; 
That were there any of our people 

there 
In want or peril, there was one to hear 
And help them ? look ! for such are 

these and 1/ 
' Are you that Psyche,' Florian ask'd, 

' to whom, 250 

In gentler days, your arrow-wounded 

fawn 
Came flying while you sat beside the 

well? 
The creature laid his muzzle on your 

lap 
And sobb'd, and you sobb'd with it, 

and the blood 
Was sprinkled on your kirtle, and you 

wept. 
That was fawn's blood, not brother's, 

yet you wept. 
O, by the bright head of my little 

niece, 
You were that Psyche, and what are 

you now ? ' 
'You are that Psyche,' Cyril said 

again, 259 

' The mother of the sweetest little maid 
That ever crow'd for kisses.' 

' Out upon it ! ' 
She answer'd, ' peace ! and why 

should I not play 
The Spartan Mother with emotion, be 
The Lucius Junius Brutus of my kind ? 
Him you call great ; he for the common 

weal, 
The fading politics of mortal Rome, 
As I might slay this child, if good need 

were, 
Slew both his sons ; and I, shall I, on 

whom 
The secular emancipation turns 
Of half this world, be swerved from 

right to save 270 

A prince, a brother ? a little will I 

yield. 
Best so, perchance, for us, and well for 

you. 
O, hard when love and duty clash ! I 

fear 



1 68 



THE PRINCESS 



My conscience will not count me fleck- 
less ; yet — 

Hear my conditions: promise — other- 
wise 

You perish — as you came, to slip away 

To-day, to-morrow, soon. It shall be 
said, 

These women were too barbarous, 
would not learn ; 

They fled, who might have shamed us. 
Promise, all/ 

What could we else, we promised 

each ; and she, 280 

Like some wild creature newly-caged, 

commenced 
A to-and-fro, so pacing till she paused 
By Florian ; holding out her lily arms 
Took both his hands, and smiling 

faintly said : 
1 1 knew you at the first ; tho' you have 

grown 
You scarce have alter'd. I am sad and 

glad 
To see you, Florian. I give thee to 

death, 
My brother ! it was duty spoke, not I. 
My needful seeming harshness, pardon 

it. 
Our mother, is she well ? ' 

With that she kiss'd 
His forehead, then, a moment after, 

clung 291 

About him, and betwixt them blos- 
som' d up 
From out a common vein of memory 
Sweet household talk, and phrases of 

the hearth, 
And far allusion, till the gracious dews 
Began to glisten and to fall ; and while 
They stood, so rapt, we gazing, came 

a voice, 
1 1 brought a message here from Lady 

Blanche/ 
Back started she, and turning round 

we saw 
The Lady Blanche's daughter where 

she stood, 300 

Melissa, with her hand upon the lock, 
A rosy blonde, and in a college gown, 
That clad her like an April daffo- 
dilly— 
Her mother's color — with her lips 

apart, 
And all her thoughts as fair within 

her eyes, 



As bottom agates seen to wave and 

float 
In crystal currents of clear morning 

seas. 

So stood that same fair creature at 

the door. 
Then Lady Psyche, ' Ah — Melissa — 

you ! 
You heard us ? ' and Melissa, ' O, par- 
don me ! 310 
I heard, I could not help it, did not 

wish ; 
But, dearest lady, pray you fear me not, 
Nor think I bear that heart within my 

breast, 
To give three gallant gentlemen to 

death/ 
' I trust you/ said the other, ' for we 

two 
Were always friends, none closer, elm 

and vine ; 
But yet your mother's jealous temper- 
ament — 
Let not your prudence, dearest, drowse, 

or prove 
The Dana'id of a leaky vase, for fear 
This whole foundation ruin, and I 

lose 320 

My honor, these their lives/ ' Ah, 

fear me not,' 
Replied Melissa ; 'no — I would not 

tell, 
No, not for all Aspasia's cleverness, 
No, not to answer, madam, all those 

hard things 
That Sheba came to ask of Solomon/ 
'Be it so,' the other, 'that we still 

may lead 
The new light up, and culminate in 

peace, 
For Solomon may come to Sheba yet/ 
Said Cyril, 'Madam, he the wisest 

man 
Feasted the woman wisest then, in 

halls 330 

Of Lebanonian cedar ; nor should 

you — 
Tho', madam, you should answer, we 

would ask — 
Less welcome find among us, if you 

came 
Among us, debtors for our lives to 

you, 
Myself for something more/ He said 

not what, 



PART SECOND 



169 



But 'Thanks,' she answer'd, 'go; we 

have been too long 
Together; keep your hoods about the 

face ; 
They do so that affect abstraction 

here. 



Push'd her flat hand against his face 
and laugh' d ; 

And thus our conference closed. 

And then we strolled 

For half the day thro' stately thea- 
tres 




' The Lady Blanche's daughter where she stood, 
Melissa, 'with her hand upon the lock ' 



Speak little ; mix not with the rest ; 

and hold 

Your promise. All, I trust, may yet 

be well.' 340 

We turn'd to go, but Cyril took the 

child, 
And held her round the knees against 

his waist, 
And blew the swollen cheek of a 

trumpeter, 
While Psyche watch'd them, smiling, 

and the child 



Bench'd crescent-wise. In each we 

sat, we heard 
The grave professor. On the lecture 1 

slate 
The circle rounded under female hands 
With flawless demonstration ; follow'd 

then 351 

A classic lecture, rich in sentiment, 
With scraps of thunderous epic lilted 

out 
By violet-hooded Doctors, elegies 
And quoted odes, and jewels five 

words-lone 



170 



THE PRINCESS 



That on the stretch'd forefinger of all 

Time 
Sparkle forever. Then we dipt in all 
That treats of whatsoever is, the state, 
The total chronicles of man, the mind, 
The morals, something of the frame, 

the rock, 360 

The star, the bird, the fish, the shell, 

the flower, 
Electric, chemic laws, and all the rest, 
And whatsoever can be taught and 

known ; 
Till like three horses that have broken 

fence, 
And glutted all night long breast-deep 

in corn, 
We issued gorged with knowledge, 

and I spoke : 
1 Why, sirs, they do all this as well as 

we.' 
'They hunt old trails,' said Cyril, 

' very well ; 
But when did woman ever yet invent? ' 
' Ungracious ! ' answer' d Florian ; 

' have you learnt 37° 

No more from Psyche's lecture, you 

that talk'd 
The trash that made me sick, and 

almost sad ? ' 
1 0, trash,' he said, ' but with a kernel 

in it ! 
Should I not call her wise who made 

me wise ? 
And learnt ? I learnt more from her 

in a flash 
Than if my brainpan were an empty 

hull, 
And every Muse tumbled a science in. 
A thousand hearts lie fallow in these 

halls, 
And round these halls a thousand 

baby loves 
Fly twanging headless arrows at the 

hearts, 380 

Whence follows many a vacant pang ; 

butO, 
With me, sir, enter'd in the bigger 

boy, 
The head of all the golden-shafted 

firm, 
The long-limb'd lad that had a Psyche 

too; 
He cleft me thro' the stomacher. And 

now 
What think you of it, Florian ? do I 

chase 



The substance or the shadow ? will it 

hold? 
I have no sorcerer's malison on me, 
No ghostly haun tings like his High- 
ness. I 
Flatter myself that always every- 
where 390 
I know the substance when I see it. 

Well, 
Are castles shadows ? Three of them? 

Is she 
The sweet proprietress a shadow ? If 

not, 
Shall those three castles patch my 

tatter'd coat ? 
For dear are those three castles to my 

wants, 
And dear is sister Psyche to my 

heart, 
And two dear things are one of double 

worth ; 
And much I might have said, but that 

my zone 
Unmann'd me. Then the Doctors ! O, 

to hear 
The Doctors ! O, to watch the thirsty 

plants 400 

Imbibing ! once or twice I thought to 

roar, 
To break my chain, to shake my 

mane ; but thou, 
Modulate me, soul of mincing mim- 
icry ! 
Make liquid treble of that bassoon, my 

throat ; 
Abase those eyes that ever loved tc 

meet 
Star-sisters answering under crescent 

brows ; 
Abate the stride which speaks of man, 

and loose 
A flying charm of blushes o'er this 

cheek, 
Where they like swallows coming out 

of time 
Will wonder why they came. But 

hark the bell 410 

For dinner, let us go ! ' 

And in we stream'd 
Among the columns, pacing staid and 

still 
By twos and threes, till all from end 

to end 
With beauties every shade of brown 

and fair 
In colors gayer than the morning mist, 




PART THIRD 



171 



The long hall glitter' d like a bed of 

flowers. 
How might a man not wander from 

his wits 
Pierced thro' with eyes, but that I 

kept mine own 
Intent on her, who rapt in glorious 

dreams, 
The second-sight of some Astrasan age, 
Sat compass' d with professors ; they, 

the while, 421 

Discuss'd a doubt and tost it to and 

fro. 
A clamor thicken'd, mixt with inmost 

terms 
Of art and science ; Lady Blanche 

alone 
Of faded form and haughtiest linea- 
ments, 
With all her autumn tresses falsely 

brown, 
Shot sidelong daggers at us, a tiger- 
cat 
In act to spring. 

At last a solemn grace 
Concluded, and we sought the gar- 
dens. There 
One walk'd reciting by herself, and 

one 430 

In this hand held a volume as to read, 
And smoothed a petted peacock down 

with that. 
Some to a low song oar'd a shallop by 
Or under arches of the marble bridge 
Hung, shadow'd from the heat ; some 

hid and sought 
In the orange thickets ; others tost a 

ball 
Above the fountain- jets, and back 

again 
With laughter ; others lay about the 

lawns, 
Of the older sort, and murmur'd that 

their May 
Was passing — what was learning unto 

them ? 440 

They wish'd to marry ; they could 

rule a house ; 
Men hated learned women. But we 

three 
Sat muffled like the Fates ; and often 

came 
Melissa hitting all we saw with shafts 
Of gentle satire, kin to charity, 
That harm'd not. Then day droopt ; 

the chapel bells 



Call'd us ; we left the walks ; we 

mixt with those 
Six hundred maidens cla.d in purest 

white, 
Before two streams of light from wall 

to wall, 
While the great organ almost burst 

his pipes, 4SO 

Groaning for power, and rolling thro' 

the court 
A long melodious thunder to the sound 
Of solemn psalms and silver litanies, 
The work of Ida, to call down from 

heaven 
A blessing on her labors for the world. 

Sweet and low, sweet and low, 

Wind of the western sea, 
Low, low, breathe and blow, 
Wind of the western sea ! 
Over the rolling waters go, 460 

Come from the dying moon, and blow, 
Blow him again to me ; 
While my little one, while my pretty one 
sleeps. 

Sleep and rest, sleep and rest, 

Father will come to thee soon ; 
Kest, rest, on mother's breast, 

Father will come to thee soon ; 
Father will come to his babe in the 

nest, 
Silver sails all out of the west 

Under the silver moon ; 470 

Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one, 
sleep. 

Ill 

Morn in the white wake of the morn- 
ing star 

Came furrowing all the orient into 
gold. 

We rose, and each by other drest with 
care 

Descended to the court that lay three 
parts 

In shadow, but the Muses' heads were 
t touch'd 

Above the darkness from their native 
East. 

There while we stood beside the 
fount, and watch'd 

Or seem'd to watch the dancing bub- 
ble, approach'd 

Melissa, tinged with wan from lack 
of sleep, 



172 



THE PRINCESS 



Or grief, and glowing round her dewy- 
eyes 10 
The circled Iris of a night of tears ; 
And 'Fly/ she cried, 'O fly, while 

yet you may ! 
My mother knows.' And when I 

ask'd her 'how/ 
'My fault/ she wept, 'my fault! and 

yet not mine ; 
Yet mine in part. O, hear me, pardon 

me ! 
My mother, 't is her wont from night 

to night 
To rail at Lady Psyche and her side. 
She says the Princess should have 

been the Head, 
Herself and Lady Psyche the two 

arms ; 
And so it was agreed when first they 

came ; 20 

But Lady Psyche was the right hand 

now, 
And she the left, or not or seldom used ; 
Hers more than half the students, all 

the love. 
And so last night she fell to canvass 

you, 

Her countrywomen ! she did not envy 

her. 
"Who ever saw such wild barbarians? 
Girls ? — more like men ! " and at these 

words the snake, 
My secret, seem'd to stir within my 

breast ; 
And O, sirs, could I help it, but my 

cheek 
Began to burn and burn, and her lynx 

eye 30 

To fix and make me hotter, till she 

laugh'd : 
" O marvellously modest maiden, you ! 
Men ! girls, like men ! why, if they 

had been men 
You need not set your thoughts in 

rubric thus 
For wholesale comment." Pardon, I 

am shamed 
That I must needs repeat for my excuse 
What looks so little graceful : ' ' men " 

— for still 
My mother went revolving on the 

word — 
"And so they are, — very like men 

indeed — 
And with that woman closeted for 

hours ! " 40 



Then came these dreadful words out 

one by one, 
' ' Why — these — are — men ; " I shud- 

der'd ; "and you know it." 
"O, ask me nothing," I said. "And 

she knows too, 
And she conceals it." So my mother 

clutch'd 
The truth at once, but with no word 

from me ; 
And now thus early risen she goes to 

inform 
The Princess. Lady Psyche will be 

crush'd ; 
But you may yet be saved, and there- 
fore fly ; 
But heal me with your pardon ere 

you go.' 

1 What pardon, sweet Melissa, for a 

blush ?' 50 

Said Cyril: 'Pale one, blush again; 

than wear 
Those lilies, better blush our lives 

away. 
Yet let us breathe for one hour more 

in heaven,' 
He added, 'lest some classic angel 

speak 
In scorn of us, ' ' They mounted, Gany- 

medes, 
To tumble, Vulcans, on the second 

morn." 
But I will melt this marble into 

wax 
To yield us farther furlough ; ' and he 

went. 

Melissa shook her doubtful curls, 

and thought 
He scarce would prosper. 'Tell us,' 

Florian ask'd, 60 

' How grew this feud betwixt the right 

and left.' 
' O, long ago,' she said, 'betwixt these 

two 
Division smoulders hidden; 'tis my 

mother, 
Too jealous, often fretful as the wind 
Pent in a crevice : much I bear with 

her. 
I never knew my father, but she says — 
God help her ! — she was wedded to a 

fool; 
And still she rail'd against the state 

of things. 



PART THIRD 



i73 



She had the care of Lady Ida's youth, 

And from the Queen's decease she 
brought her up. 70 

But when your sister came she won 
the heart 

Of Ida; they were still together, 
grew — 

For so they said themselves — inoscu- 
lated ; 

Consonant chords that shiver to one 
note ; 

One mind in all things. Yet my mo- 
ther still 

Affirms your Psyche thieved her 
theories, 

And angled with them for her pupil's 
love ; 

She calls her plagiarist, I know not 
what. 

But I must go ; I dare not tarry,' and 
light, 

As flies the shadow of a bird, she 
fled. 80 



Then murmur' d Florian, gazing 

after her : 
'An open-hearted maiden, true and 

pure. 
If I could love, why this were she. 

How pretty 
Her blushing was, and how she blush'd 

again, 
As if to close with Cyril's random 

wish ! 
Not like your Princess cramm'd with 

erring pride, 
Nor like poor Psyche whom she drags 

in tow.' 

'The crane/ I said, 'may chatter 

of the crane, 
The dove may murmur of the dove, 

but I 
An eagle clang an eagle to the 

sphere. 90 

My princess, O my princess ! true she 

errs, 



^v , u ^- v 




' Melissa shook her doubtful curls, and thought 
He scarce would prosper ' 



174 



THE PRINCESS 



But in her own grand way ; being 

herself 
Three times more noble than three 

score of men, 
She sees herself in every woman else, 
And so she wears her error like a 

crown 
To blind the truth and me. For her, 

and her, 
Hebes are they to hand ambrosia, mix 
The nectar; but — ah, she — whene'er 

she moves 
The Samian Here rises, and she speaks 
A Memnon smitten with the morning 



So saying from the court we paced, 

and gain'd 
The terrace ranged along the northern 

front, 
And leaning there on those balusters, 

high 
Above the empurpled champaign, 

drank the gale 
That blown about the foliage under- 
neath, 
And sated with the innumerable rose, 
Beat balm upon our eyelids. Hither 

came 
Cyril, and yawning, 'O hard task,' 

he cried : 
'No fighting shadows here. I forced 

a way 
Thro' solid opposition crabb'd and 

gnarl'd. no 

Better to clear prime forests, heave 

and thump 
A league of street in summer solstice 

down, 
Than hammer at this reverend gentle- 
woman. 
I knock'd and, bidden, enter'd ; found 

her there 
At point to move, and settled in her 

eyes 
The green malignant light of coming 

storm. 
Sir, I was 'courteous, every phrase 

well-oil'd, 
As man's could be ; yet maiden-meek 

I pray'd 
Concealment. She demanded who 

we were, 
And why we came ? I fabled nothing 

fair, 1 20 

But, your example pilot, told her all. 



Up went the hush'd amaze of hand 

and eye. 
But when I dwelt upon your old affi- 
ance, 
She answer'd, sharply that I talk'd 

astray. 
I urged the fierce inscription on the 

gate, 
And our three lives. True — we had 

limed ourselves 
With open eyes, and we must take 

the chance. 
But such extremes, I told her, well 

might harm 
The woman's cause. ''Not more than 

now," she said, 
1 ' So puddled as it is with favoritism. " 
I tried the mother's heart. Shame 

might befall 131 

Melissa, knowing, saying not she 

knew ; 
Her answer was, "Leave me to deal 

with that." 
I spoke of war to come and many 

deaths, 
And she replied, her duty was to 

speak, 
And duty duty, clear of consequences. 
I grew discouraged, sir; but since I 

knew 
No rock so hard but that a little wave 
May beat admission in a thousand 

years, 
I recommenced : "Decide not ere you 

pause. 140 

I find you here but in the second place, 
Some say the third — the authentic 

foundress you. 
I* offer boldly ; we will seat you high- 
est. 
Wink at our advent ; help my prince 

to gain 
His rightful bride, and here I promise 

you 
Some palace in our land, where you 

shall reign 
The head and heart of all our fair she- 
world, 
And your great name flow on with 

broadening time 
For ever." Well, she balanced this a 

little, 
And told me she would answer us to- 
day, 150 
Meantime be mute ; thus much, nor 

more I gain'd.' 




PART THIRD 



*75 



He ceasing, came a message from 

the Head. 
1 That afternoon the Princess rode to 

take 
The dip of certain strata to the north. 
Would we go with her ? we should find 

the land 
Worth seeing, and the river made a 

fall 
Out yonder ; ' then she pointed on to 

where 
A double hill ran up his f urrowy forks 
Beyond the thick-leaved platans of 

the vale. 

Agreed to, this, the day fled on thro' 

all i 60 

Its range of duties to the appointed 

hour. 
Then summon'd to the porch we went. 

She stood 
Among her maidens, higher by the 

head, 
Her back against a pillar, her foot on 

one 
Of those tame leopards. Kitten-like he 

roll'd 
And paw'd about her sandal. I drew 

near; 
I gazed. On a sudden my strange 

seizure came 
Upon me, the weird vision of our house. 
The Princess Ida seem'd a hollow show, 
Her gay-furr'd cats a painted fantasy, 
Her college and her maidens empty 

masks, 171 

And I myself the shadow of a dream, 
For all things were and were not. Yet 

I felt 
My heart beat thick with passion and 

with awe ; / 

Then from my breast the involuntary- 
sigh 
Brake, as she smote me with the light 

of eyes 
That lent my knee desire to kneel, and 

shook 
My pulses, till to horse we got, and so 
Went forth in long retinue following 

up 
The river as it narrow'd to the hills. 

I rode beside her and to me she 
said : 181 

'O friend, we trust that you esteem'd 
us not 



Too harsh to your companion y ester- 
morn ; 

Unwillingly we spake.' 'No— not to 
her,' 

I answer'd, ' but to one of whom we 
spake 

Your Highness might have seem'd the 
thing you say.' 

' Again ? ' she cried, ' are you ambassa- 
dresses 

From him to me ? we give you, being 



A license ; speak, and let thetopicdie.' 

I stammer'd that I knew him — could 
have wish'd — i 9 o 

' Our king expects — was there no pre- 
contract ? 

There is no truer-hearted — ah, you 
seem 

All he prefigured, and he could not see 

The bird of passage flying south but 
long'd 

To follow. Surely, if your Highness 
keep 

Your purport, you will shock him even 
to death, 

Or baser courses, children of despair.' 

* Poor boy, ' she said, ' can he not 

read — no books ? 
Quoit, tennis, ball — no games ? nor 

deals in that 
Which men delight in, martial exer- 
cise ? 200 
To nurse a blind ideal like a girl, 
Methinks he seems no better than a 

girl ; 
As girls were once, as we ourself have 

been. 
We had our dreams ; perhaps he mixt 

with them. 
We touch on our dead self, nor shun 

to do it, 
Being other — since we learnt our 

meaning here, 
To lift the woman's fallen divinity 
Upon an even pedestal with man.' 

She paused, and added with a haugh- 
tier smile, 

'And as to precontracts, we move, my 
friend, 

At no man's beck, but know ourself 
and thee, 

O Yashti, noble Vashti ! Summon'd out 



176 



THE PRINCESS 



She kept her state, and left the drunk- 
en king 

To brawl at Shushan underneath the 
palms.' 

'Alas, your Highness breathes full 

East/ I said, 
' On that which leans to you ! I know 

the Prince, 
I prize his truth. And then how vast 

a work 
To assail this gray preeminence of man ! 
You grant me license ; might I use it ? 

think ; 
Ere half be done perchance your life 

may fail ; 220 

Then comes the feebler heiress of your 

plan, 
And takes and ruins all ; and thus 

your pains 
May only make that footprint upon 

sand 
Which old-recurring waves of preju- 
dice 
Resmooth to nothing. Might I dread 

that you, 
With only Fame for spouse and your 

great deeds 
For issue, yet may live in vain, and 

miss 
Meanwhile what every woman counts 

her due, 
Love, children, happiness ? ' 

And she exclaim' d, 
' Peace, you young savage of the 

Northern wild ! 230 

What! tho' your Prince's love were 

like a god's, 
Have we not made ourself the sacri- 
fice? 
You are bold indeed ; we are not talk'd 

to thus. 
Yet will we say for children, would 

they grew 
Like field-flowers everywhere! we like 

them well : 
But children die ; and let me tell you, 

girl, 
Howe'er you babble, great deeds can- 
not die ; 
They with the sun and moon renew 

their light 
For ever, blessing those that look on 

them. 
Children — that men may pluck them 

from our hearts, 240 



Kill us with pity, break us with our- 
selves — 

O — children — there is nothing upon 
earth 

More miserable than she that has a son 

And sees him err. Nor would we work 
for fame ; 

Tho' she perhaps might reap the ap- 
plause of Great, 

Who learns the one pou sto whence 
after-hands 

May move the world, tho' she herself 
effect 

But little ; wherefore up and act, nor 
shrink 

For fear our solid aim be dissipated 

By frail successors. Would, indeed, 
we had been, 250 

In lieu of many mortal flies, a race 

Of giants living each a thousand years, 

That we might see our own work out, 
and watch 

The sandy footprint harden into stone.' 

I answer'd nothing, doubtful in my- 
self 

If that strange poet-princess with her 
grand 

Imaginations might at all be won. 

And she broke out interpreting my 
thoughts : 

'No doubt we seem a kind of mon- 
ster to you ; 
We are used to that ; for women, up 
till this 260 

Cramp' d under worse than South- sea- 
isle taboo, 
Dwarfs of the gynaeceum, fail so far 
In high desire, they know not, cannot 

guess 
How much their welfare is a passion 

to us. 
If we could give them surer, quicker 

proof — 
O, if our end were less achievable 
By slow approaches than by single act 
Of immolation, any phase of death, 
We were as prompt to spring against 

the pikes, 
Or down the fiery gulf as talk of it, 270 
To compass our dear sisters' liberties.' 

She bow'd as if to veil a noble tear ; 
And up we came to where the river 
sloped 



PART THIRD 



'77 




' The splendor falls on castle walls 
And snowy summits old in story ' 



To plunge in cataract, shattering on 

black blocks 
A breadth of thunder. O'er it shook 

the woods, 
And danced the color, and, below, 

stuck out 
The bones of some vast bulk that lived 

and roar'd 
Before man was. She gazed awhile 

and said, 
' As these rude bones to us, are we to 

her 
That will be/ 'Dare we dream of 

that/ I'ask'd, 280 

1 Which wrought us, as the workman 

and his work, 



That practice betters?' 'How,' she 

cried, ' you love 
The metaphysics! read and earn our 

prize, 
A golden brooch. Beneath an emer- 
ald plane 
Sits Diotima, teaching him that died 
Of hemlock — our device, wrought to 

the life — 
She rapt upon her subject, he on her ; 
For there are schools for all.' 'And 

yet/ I said, 
'Methinks I have not found among 

them all 
One anatomic' ' Nay, we thought of 

that/ 290 



x 7 8 



THE PRINCESS 



She answer'd, ' but it pleased us not ; 

in truth 
We shudder but to dream our maids 

should ape 
Those monstrous males that carve the 

living hound, 
And cram him with the fragments of 

the grave, 
Or in the dark dissolving human heart, 
And holy secrets of this microcosm, 
Dabbling a shameless hand with shame- 
ful jest, 
Encarnalize their spirits. Yet we 

know 
Knowledge is knowledge, and this 

matter hangs. 
Howbeit ourself, foreseeing casualty, 
Nor willing men should come among 

us, learnt, 301 

Tor many weary moons before we 

came, 
This craft of healing. Were you sick, 

ourself 
Would tend upon you. To your ques- 
tion now, 
Which touches on the workman and 

his work. 
Let there be light and there was light ; 

't is so, 
For was, and is, and will be, are but 

is, 
And all creation is one act at once, 
The birth of light ; but we that are 

not all, 
As parts, can see but parts, now this, 

now that, 310 

And live, perforce, from thought to 

thought, and make 
One act a phantom of succession. 

Thus 
Our weakness somehow shapes the 

shadow, Time ; 
But in the shadow will we work, and 

mould 
The woman to the fuller day/ 

She spake 
With kindled eyes : we rode a league 

bej^nd, 
And, o'er a bridge of pinewood cross- 
ing, came 
On flowery levels underneath the crag, 
Full of all beauty. ' O, how sweet,' 

I said, — 
For I was half -oblivious of my mask, — 
* To linger here with one that loved 

us!' 'Yea,' 321 



She answer'd, ' or with fair philoso- 
phies 
That lift the fancy ; for indeed these 

fields 
Are lovely, lovelier not the Elysian 

lawns, 
Where paced the demigods of old, and 

saw 
The soft white vapor streak the 

crowned towers 
Built to the Sun/ Then, turning to 

her maids, 
' Pitch our pavilion here upon the 

sward ; 
Lay out the viands/ At the word, 

they raised 
A tent of satin, elaborately wrought 
With fair Corinna's triumph ; here she 

stood, 331 

Engirt with many a florid maiden- 
cheek, 
The woman-conqueror ; woman-con- 

quer'd there 
The bearded Victor of ten-thousand 

hymns, 
And all the men mourn'd at his side. 

But we 
Set forth to climb ; then, climbing, 

Cyril kept 
With Psyche, with Melissa Florian, I 
With mine affianced. Many a little 

hand 
Glanced like a touch of sunshine on 

the rocks, 
Many a light foot shone like a jewel 

set 340 

In the dark crag. And then we turn'd, 

we wound 
About the cliff's, the copses, out and in, 
Hammering and clinking, chattering 

stony names 
Of shale and hornblende, rag and trap 

and tuff, 
Amygdaloid and trachyte, till the sun 
Grew broader toward his death and 

fell, and all 
The rosy heights came out above the 

lawns. 

The splendor falls on castle walls 

And snowy summits old in story; 349 
The long light shakes across the lakes, 
And the wild cataract leaps in glory. 
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes fly- 
ing, 
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying,, 
dying. 



PART FOURTH 



179 



O, hark, 0, hear! how thin and clear, 
And thinner, clearer, farther going ! 
O, sweet and far from cliff and scar 
The horns of Elfland faintly blowing! 
Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying, 
Blow, bugle ; answer, echoes, dying, dying, 
dying. 

love, they die in yon rich sky, 360 

They faint on hill or field or river ; 
Our echoes roll from soul to soul, 
And grow for ever and for ever. 
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes fly- 
ing, 
And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, 
dying. 



IV 

' There sinks the nebulous star we call 

the sun, 
If that hypothesis of theirs be sound,' 
Said Ida ; ' let us down and rest ; ' and 

we 
Down from the lean and wrinkled pre- 
cipices, 
By every coppice-feather' d chasm and 

cleft, 
Dropt thro' the ambrosial gloom to 

where below 
No bigger than a glowworm shone the 

tent 
Lamp-lit from . the inner. Once she 

lean'd on me, 
Descending ; once or twice she lent her 

hand, 
And blissful palpitations in the blood 
Stirring a sudden transport rose and 

fell. 

But when we planted level feet, and 

dipt 
Beneath the satin dome and enter' d in, 
There leaning deep in broider'd down 

we sank 
Our elbows ; on a tripod in the midst 
A fragrant flame rose, and before us 

glow'd 
Fruit, blossom, viand, amber wine, and 

gold. 

Then she, ' Let some one sing to us ; 

lightlier move 
The minutes fledged with music ; ' and 

a maid, 
Of those beside her, smote her harp 

and sang. 20 



1 Tears, idle tears, I know not what they 
mean, 
Tears from the depth of some divine despair 
Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes, 
In looking on the happy autumn-fields, 
And thinking of the days that are no more. 

' Fresh as the first beam glittering on a 
sail, 

That brings our friends up from the under- 
world, 

Sad as the last which reddens over one 

That sinks with all we love below the verge ; 

So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more. 

1 Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer 
dawns 3 x 

The earliest pipe of half-awaken' d birds 
To dying ears, when unto dying eyes 
The casement slowly grows a glimmering 

square ; 
So sad, so strange, the days that are no 
more. 

1 Dear as remember'd kisses after death, 
And sweet as those by hopeless fancy 

feign 'd 
On lips that are for others ; deep as love, 
Deep as first love, and wild with all regret; 
O Death in Life, the days that are no more ! ' 

She ended with such passion that 

the tear 41 

She sang of shook and fell, an erring 

pearl 
Lost in her bosom ; but with some dis- 
dain 
Answer'd the Princess : ' If indeed 

there haunt 
About the moulder'd lodges of the past 
So sweet a voice and vague, fatal to 

men, 
Well needs it we should cram our ears 

with wool 
And so pace by. But thine are fancies 

hatch' d 
In silken-folded idleness ; nor is it 
Wiser to weep a true occasion lost, 50 
But trim our sails, and let old bygones 

be, 
While down the streams that float us 

each and all 
To the issue, goes, like glittering bergs 

of ice, 
Throne after throne, and molten on the 

waste 
Becomes a cloud ; for all things Berve 

their time 
Toward that great year of equal mights 

and rights. 



i8o 



THE PRINCESS 



Nor would I fight with iron laws, in 
the end 

Found golden. Let the past be past, 
let be 

Their cancell'd Babels ; tho' the rough 
kex break 

The starr'd mosaic, and the beard- 
blown goat 60 

Hang on the shaft, and the wild fig- 
tree split 

Their monstrous idols, care not while 
we hear 

A trumpet in the distance pealing 
news 

Of better, and Hope, a poising eagle, 
burns 

Above the unrisen morrow/ Then to 
me, 

'Know you no song of your own 
land,' she said, 

'Not such as moans about the retro- 
spect, 

But deals with the other distance and 
the hues 

Of promise ; not a death's-head at the 
wine ? ' 

Then I remember'd one myself had 

made, 70 

What time I watch'd the swallow 

winging south 
From mine own land, part made long 

since, and part 
Now while I sang, and maiden-like as 

far 
As I could ape their treble did I 

sing. 



'O Swallow, Swallow, flying, flying 
south, 
Fly to her, and fall upon her gilded eaves, 
And tell her, tell her, what I tell to thee. 

' O, tell her, Swallow, thou that knowest 

each, 
That bright and fierce and fickle is the 

South, 
And dark and true and tender is the 

North. 80 

1 O Swallow, Swallow, if I could follow, 
and light 
Upon her lattice, I would pipe and trill, 
And cheep and twitter twenty million loves. 

1 0, were I thou that she might take me in, 
And lay me on her bosom, and her heart 
Would rock the snowy cradle till I died! 



' Why lingereth she to clothe her heart 
with love, 
Delaying as the tender ash delays 
To clothe herself, when all the woods are 
green ? 

' O, tell her, Swallow, that thy brood is 
flown ; 90 

Say to her, I do but wanton in the South, 
But in the North long since my nest is 
made. 

' 0, tell her, brief is life but love is long, 
And brief the sun of summer in the North, 
And brief the moon of beauty in the South. 

' Swallow, flying from the golden 

woods, 
Fly to her, and pipe and woo her, and 

make her mine, 
And tell her, tell her, that I follow thee.' 



I ceased, and all the ladies, each at 
each, 

Like the Ithacensian suitors in old 
time, 100 

Stared with great eyes, and laugh' d 
with alien lips, 

And knew not what they meant ; for 
still my voice 

Rang false. But smiling, ' Not for 
thee,' she said, 

' O Bulbul, any rose of Gulistan 

Shall burst her veil ; marsh-divers, 
rather, maid, 

Shall croak thee sister, or the meadow- 
crake 

Grate her harsh kindred in the grass 
— and this 

A mere love-poem ! O, for such, my 
friend, 

We hold them slight ; they mind us 
of the time 

When we made bricks in Egypt. 
Knaves are men, no 

That lute and flute fantastic tender- 
ness, 

And dress the victim to the offering up, 

And paint the gates of Hell with Para- 
dise, 

And play the slave to gain the tyranny. 

Poor soul ! I had a maid of honor 
once ; 

She wept her true eyes blind for such 
a one, 

A rogue of canzonets and serenades. 

I loved her. Peace be with her. She 
is dead. 



PART FOURTH 



181 



So the}' blaspheme the muse ! But 
great is song 

Used to great ends ; ourself have often 
tried 120 

Valkyrian hymns, or into rhythm 
have dash'd 

The passion of the prophetess ; for 
song 

Is duer unto freedom, force and growth 

Of spirit, than to junketing and 
love. 

Love is it ? Would this same mock- 
love, and this 

Mock-Hymen were laid up like win- 
ter bats, 

Till all men grew to rate us at our 
worth, 

Not vassals to be beat, nor pretty 
babes 

To be dandled, no, but living wills, 
and sphered 

Whole in ourselves and owed to none. 
Enough ! 130 

But now to leaven play with profit, 

Know you no song, the true growth 
of your soil, 

That gives the manners of your coun- 
trywomen ? ' 

She spoke and turn'd her sumptu- 
ous head with eyes 

Of shining expectation fixt on mine. 

Then while I dragg'd my brains for 
such a song, 

Cyril, with whom the bell-mouth' d 
glass had wrought, 

Or master'd by the sense of sport, 
began 

To troll a careless, careless tavern- 
catch 

Of Moll and Meg, and strange experi- 
ences 140 

Unmeet for ladies. Florian nodded 
at him, 

I frowning ; Psyche flush'd and wann'd 
and shook ; 

The lilylike Melissa droop'd her brows. 

'Forbear,' the Princess cried; 'For- 
bear, sir,' I; 

And heated thro' and thro' with wrath 
and love, 

I smote him on the breast. He started 

U P ' M -, 

There rose a shriek as of a city 

sack'd ; 



Melissa clamor'd, ' Flee the death ; ' 

' To horse ! ' 
Said Ida, ' home ! to horse ! ' and fled, 

as flies 
A troop of snowy doves athwart the 

dusk I5 o 

When some one batters at the dove- 
cote doors, 
Disorderly the women. Alone I stood 
With Florian, cursing Cyril, vext at 

heart 
In the pavilion. There like parting 

hopes 
I heard them passing from me ; hoof 

by hoof, 
And every hoof a knell to my desires, 
Clang' d on the bridge ; and then an- 
other shriek, 
'The Head, the Head, the Princess, 

O the Head ! ' 
For blind with rage she miss'd the 

plank, and roll'd 
In the river. Out I sprang from glow 

to gloom ; 160 

There whirl' d her white robe like a 

blossom' d branch 
Rapt to the horrible fall. A glance I 

gave, 
No more, but woman- vested as I was 
Plunged, and the flood drew ; yet I 

caught her ; then 
Oaring one arm, and bearing in my 

left 
The weight of all the hopes of half 

the world, 
Strove to buffet to land in vain. A 

tree 
Was half -disrooted from his place and 

stoop' d 
To drench his dark locks in the gur- 
gling wave 
Mid-channel. Right on this we drove 

and caught, 170 

And grasping down the boughs I 

gain'd the shore. 

There stood her maidens glimmer- 

ingly group'd 
In the hollow bank. One reaching 

forward drew 
My burthen from mine arms ; they 

cried, ' She lives.' 
They bore her back into the tent : 

but I, 
So much a kind of shame within me 

wrought, 



l82 



THE PRINCESS 



Not yet endured to meet her opening 
eyes, 

Nor found my friends; but push'd 
alone on foot — 

For since her horse was lost I left her 
mine — 

Across the woods, and less from In- 
dian craft 1 80 

Than beelike instinct hiveward, found 
at length 

The garden portals. Two great stat- 
ues, Art 

And Science, Caryatids, lifted up 

A weight of emblem, and betwixt 
were valves 

Of open-work in which the hunter 
rued 

His rash intrusion, manlike, but his 
brows 

Had sprouted, and the branches there- 
upon 

Spread out at top, and grimly spiked 
the gates. 

A little space was left between the 

horns, 
Thro' which I clamber' d o'er at top 

with pain, 190 

Dropt on the sward, and up the linden 

walks, 
And, tost on thoughts that changed 

from hue to hue, 
Now poring on the glowworm, now 

the star, 
I paced the terrace, till the Bear had 

wheel'd 
Thro' a great arc his seven slow 

suns. 

A step 
Of lightest echo, then a loftier form 
Than female, moving thro' the uncer- 
tain gloom, 
Disturb'd me with the doubt ' if this 

were she,' 
But it was Florian. 'Hist, 0, hist!' 

he said, 
1 They seek us ; out so late is out of 

rules. 200 

Moreover, " Seize the strangers" is 

the cry. 
How came you here ? ' I told him. 

'I,' said he, 
4 Last of the train, a moral leper, I, 
To whom none spake, half-sick at 

heart, re turn' d. 
Arriving all confused among the rest 



With hooded brows I crept into the 

hall, 
And, couch' d behind a Judith, under- 
neath 
The head of Holof ernes peep'd and 

saw. 
Girl after girl was call'd to trial ; each 
Disclaim'd all knowledge of us; last 

of all, 210 

Melissa ; trust me, sir, I pitied her. 
She, question'd if she knew us men, 

at first 
Was silent ; closer prest, denied it not, 
xAnd then, demanded if her mother 

knew, 
Or Psyche, she affirm' d not, or denied ; 
From whence the Royal mind, familiar 

with her, 
Easily gather'd either guilt. She sent 
For Psyche, but she was not there ; 

she call'd 
For Psyche's child to cast it from the 

doors ; 
She sent for Blanche to accuse her 

face to face ; 220 

And I slipt out. But whither will 

you now? 
And where are Psyche, Cyril ? both 

are fled ; 
What, if together? that were not so 

well. 
Would rather we had never come ! I 

dread 
His wildness, and the chances of the 

dark. ' 

'And yet/ I said, 'you wrong him 

more than I 
That struck him ; this is proper to the 

clown, 
Tho' smock' d, or furr'd and purpled, 

still the clown, 
To harm the thing that trusts him, 

and to shame 
That which he says he loves. For 

Cyril, howe'er 230 

He deal in frolic, as to-night — the song 
Might have been worse and sinn'd in 

grosser lips 
Beyond all pardon — as it is, I hold 
These flashes on the surface are not he. 
He has a solid base of temperament ; 
But as the water-lily starts and slides 
Upon the level in little puffs of wind, 
Tho' anchor' d to the bottom, such is 

he.' 



_ 



PART FOURTH 



183 



Scarce had I ceased when from a 

tamarisk near 
Two Proctors leapt upon us, crying, 

' Names ! ' 240 

He, standing still, was clutch'd ; but 

I began 
To thrid the musky-circled mazes, 

wind 
And double in and out the boles, and 

race 
By all the fountains. Fleet I was of 

foot; 
Before me shower 'd the rose in flakes ; 

behind 
I heard the puffd pursuer; at mine 

ear 
Bubbled the nightingale and heeded 

not, 
And secret laughter tickled all my 

soul. 
At last I hook'd my ankle in a vine 
That claspt the feet of a Mnemosyne, 
And falling on my face was caught 

and known. 251 

They haled us to the Princess where 
she sat 

High in the hall ; above her droop' d a 
lamp, 

And made the single jew^el on her 
brow 

Burn like the mystic fire on a mast- 
head, 

Prophet of storm; a handmaid on 
each side 

Bow'd toward her, combing out her 
long black hair 

Damp from the river; and close be- 
hind her stood 

Eight daughters of the plough, 
stronger than men, 

Huge women blowzed with health, 
and wind, and rain, 260 

And labor. Each was like a Druid 
rock; 

Or like a spire of land that stands 
apart 

Cleft from the main, and wail'd about 
with mews. 

Then, as we came, the crowd divid- 
ing clove 

An advent to the throne ; and there 
beside, 

Half -naked as if caught at once from 
bed 



And tumbled on the purple footcloth, 

lay 
The lily-shining child ; and on the left, 
Bow'd on her palms and folded up 

from wrong, 
Her round white shoulder shaken with 

her sobs, 27 o 

Melissa knelt ; but Lady Blanche erect 
Stood up and spake, an affluent orator : 

' It was not thus, O Princess, in old 

days; 
You prized my counsel, lived upon 

my lips. 
I led you then to all the Castalies ; 
I fed you with the milk of every Muse ; 
I loved you like this kneeler, and you 

me 
Your second mother: those were gra- 
cious times. 
Then came your new friend ; you 

began to change — 
I saw it and grieved — to slacken and 

to cool ; 280 

Till taken with her seeming openness 
You turn'd your warmer currents all 

to her, 
To me you froze ; this was my meed 

for all. 
Yet I bore up in part from ancient 

love, 
And partly that I hoped to win you 

back, 
And partly conscious of my own 

deserts, 
And partly that you were my civil 

head, 
And chiefly you were born for some- 
thing great, 
In whk 7 i I might your fellow-worker 

be, 
When time should serve ; and thus a 

noble scheme 290 

Grew up from seed we two long since 

had sown ; 
In us true growth, in her a Jonahs 

gourd, 
Up in one night and due to. sudden 

sun. 
We took this palace ; but even from 

the first 
You stood in your own light and 

darken' d mine. 
What student came but thai you 

planed her path 
To Lady Psyche, younger, not so w ise, 



184 



THE PRINCESS 



A foreigner, and I your country- 
woman, 
I your old friend and tried, she new 

in all ? 
But still her lists were swell'd and 

mine were lean ; 300 

Yet I bore up in hope she would be 

known. 
Then came these wolves; they knew 

her ; they endured, 
Long-closeted with her the yestermorn, 
To tell her what they were, and she 

to hear. 
And me none told. Not less to an eye 

like mine, 
A lidless watcher of the public weal, 
Last night, their mask was patent, 

and my foot 
Was to you. But I thought again ; I 

fear'd 
To meet a cold "We thank you, we 

shall hear of it 
From Lady Psyche ; " you had gone 

to her, 310 

She told, perforce, and winning easy 

grace, 
No doubt, for slight delay, remain'd 

among us 
In our young nursery still unknown, 

the stem 
Less grain than touchwood, while my 

"honest heat 
Were all miscounted as malignant 

haste 
To push my rival out of place and 

power. 
But public use required she should be 

known ; 
And since my oath was ta'en for pub- 
lic use, 
I broke the letter of it to keep the 

sense. 
I spoke not then at first, but watch'd 

them well, 320 

Saw that they kept apart, no mischief 

done ; 
And yet this day — tho' you should 

hate me for it — 
I came to tell you; found that you 

had gone, 
Bidden to the hills, she likewise. 

Now, I thought, 
That surely she will speak ; if not, 

then I. 
Did she ? These monsters blazon' d 

what they were, 



According to the coarseness of their 

kind, 
For thus I hear ; and known at last — 

my work — 
And full of cowardice and guilty 

shame — 
I grant in her some sense of shame — 

she flies ; 33 o 

And I remain on whom to wreak your 

rage, 
I, that have lent my life to build up 

yours, 
I, that have wasted here health, 

wealth, and time, 
And talent, I — you know it — I will 

not boast ; 
Dismiss me, and I prophesy your 

plan, 
Divorced from my experience, will be 

chaff 
For every gust of chance, and men 

will say 
We did not know the real light, but 

chased 
The wisp that flickers where no foot 

can tread. ' 
She ceased ; the Princess answer' d 

coldly, ' Good ; 34 o 

Your oath is broken ; we dismiss you, 

go. 
For this lost lamb ' — she pointed to 

the child — 
' Our mind is changed ; we take it to 

ourself.' 

Thereat the lady stretch' d a vulture 

throat, 
And shot from crooked lips a haggard 

smile. 
' The plan was mine. I built the nest, ' 

she said, 
' To hatch the cuckoo. Rise ! ' and 

stoop'd to updrag 
Melissa. She, half on her mother propt, 
Half -drooping from her, turn'd her 

face, and cast 
A liquid look on Ida, full of prayer, 350 
Which melted Florian's fancy as she 

hung, 
A Niobean daughter, one arm out, 
Appealing to the bolts of heaven ; and 

while 
We gazed upon her came a little stir 
About the doors, and on a sudden rush'd 
Among us, out of breath, as one pur- 
sued, 



PART FOURTH 



185 






A woman-post in flying raiment. Fear 
Stared in her eyes, and chalk'd her 

face, and wing'd 
Her transit to the throne, whereby she 

fell 
Delivering seal'd dispatches which the 

Head 360 

Took half -amazed, and in her lion's 

mood 
Tore open, silent we with blind surmise 
Regarding, while she read, till over 

brow 
And cheek and bosom brake the wrath- 
ful bloom 
As of some fire against a stormy cloud, 
When the wild peasant rights himself, 

the rick 
Flames, and his anger reddens in the 

heavens ; 
For anger most it seem'd, while now 

her breast, 
Beaten with some great passion at her 

heart, 
Palpitated, her hand shook, and we 

heard 370 

In the dead hush the papers that she 

held 
Rustle. At once the lost lamb at her 

feet 
Sent out a bitter bleating for its dam. 
The plaintive cry jarr'd on her ire ; she 

crush' d 
The scrolls together, made a sudden 

turn 
As if to speak, but, utterance failing 

her, 
She whirl'd them on to me, as who 

should say 
' Read,' and I read — two letters — one 

her sire's : 

' Fair daughter, when we sent the 

Prince your way 
We knew not your ungracious laws, 

which learnt, 380 

We, conscious of what temper you are 

built, 
Came all in haste to hinder wrong, but 

fell 
Into his father's hand, who has this 

night, 
You lying close upon this territory, 
Slipt round and in the dark invested 

you, 
And here he keeps me hostage for his 

son.' 



The second was my father's, running 

thus : 
' You have our son ; touch not a hair 

of his head ; 
Render him up unscathed ; give him 

your hand ; 
Cleave to your contract — tho' indeed 

we hear 3go 

You hold the woman is the better 

man ; 
A rampant heresy, such as if it spread 
Would make all women kick against 

their lords 
Thro' all the world, and which might 

well deserve 
That we this night should pluck your 

palace down ; 
And we will do it, unless you send us 

back 
Our son, on the instant, whole.' 

So far I read ; 
And then stood up and spoke impet- 
uously : 

1 O, not to pry and peer on your 

reserve, 
But led by golden wishes, and a 

hope 400 

The child of regal compact, did I 

break 
Your precinct ; not a scorner of your 

sex 
But venerator, zealous it should be 
All that it might be. Hear me, for I 

bear, 
Tho' man, yet human, whatsoe'er 

your wrongs, 
From the flaxen curl to the gray lock 

a life 
Less mine than yours. My nurse 

would tell me of you ; 
I babbled for you, as babies for the 

moon, 
Yague brightness ; when a boy, you 

stoop'd to me 
From all high places, lived in all fan- 
lights, 41° 
Came in long breezes rapt from inmost 

south 
And blown to inmost north ; at eve ami 

dawn 
With Ida, Ida, Ida, rang the woods ; 
The leader wild-swan in among the 

stars 
Would clang it, and lapt in wreaths of 

glowworm light 



i86 



THE PRINCESS 



The mellow breaker murmur' d Ida. 

Now, 
Because I would have reach'd you, had 

you been 
Sphered up with Cassiopeia, or the 

enthroned 
Persephone in Hades, now at length, 
Those winters of abeyance, all worn 

out, 420 

A man I came to see you ; but, indeed, 
Not in this frequence can I lend full 

tongue, 

noble Ida, to those thoughts that 

wait 
On you, their centre. Let me say but 

this, 
That many a famous man and woman, 

town 
And landskip, have I heard of, after 

seen 
The dwarfs of presage ; tho' when 

known, there grew 
Another kind of beauty in detail 
Made them worth knowing ; but in 

you I found 
My boyish dream involved and daz- 
zled down 430 
And master'd, while that after-beauty 

makes 
Such head from act to act, from hour 

to hour, 
Within me, that except you slay me 

here, 
According to your bitter statute-book, 

1 cannot cease to follow you, as they 

say 

The seal does music ; who desire you 
more 

Than growing boys their manhood ; 
dying lips, 

With many thousand matters left to 
do, 

The breath of life ; O, more than poor 
men wealth, 

Than sick men health — yours, yours, 
not mine — but half 440 

Without you ; with you, whole ; and 
of those halves 

You worthiest ; and howe'er you block 
and bar 

Your heart with system out from mine, 
I hold 

That it becomes no man to nurse de- 
spair, 

But in the teeth of clench' d antago- 
nisms 



To follow up the worthiest till he 

die. 
Yet that I came not all unauthorized 
Behold your father's letter.' 

On one knee 
Kneeling, I gave it, which she caught, 

and dash'd 
Unopen'd at her feet. A tide of 

fierce 450 

Invective seenfd to wait behind her 

lips, 
As waits a river level with the dam 
Ready to burst and flood the world 

with foam ; 
And so she would have spoken, but 

there rose 
A hubbub in the court of half the 

maids 
Gather' d together ; from the illumined 

hall 
Long lanes of splendor slanted o'er a 

press 
Of snowy shoulders, thick as herded 

ewes, 
And rainbow robes, and gems and gem- 
like eyes, 
And gold and golden heads. They to 

and fro 460 

Fluctuated, as flowers in storm, some 

red, some pale, 
All open-mouth'd, all gazing to the 

light, 
Some crying there was an army in the 

land, 
And some that men were in the very 

walls, 
And some they cared not ; till a clamor 

grew 
As of a new-world Babel, woman-built, 
And worse-confounded. High above 

them stood 
The placid marble Muses, looking 

peace. 

Not peace she look'd, the Head ; 
but rising up 

Robed in the long night of her deep 
hair, so 470 

To the open window moved, remain- 
ing there 

Fixt like a beacon-tower above the 
waves 

Of tempest, when the crimson-rolling 
eye 

Glares ruin, and the wild birds on the 
light 




PART FOURTH 



187 



Dash themselves dead. She stretch'd 

her arms and call'd 
Across the tumult, and the tumult 

fell. 

' What fear ye, brawlers ? am not I 

your Head ? 
On me, me, me, the storm first breaks ; 

/dare 
All these male thunderbolts ; what is 

it ye fear ? 
Peace ! there are those to avenge us 

and they come ; 480 

If not, — myself were like enough, O 

girls, 
To unfurl the maiden banner of our 

rights, 
And clad in iron burst the ranks of 

war, 



Or, falling, protomartyr of our cause, 

Die ; yet I blame you not so much for 
fear ; 

Six thousand years of fear have made 
you that 

From which I would redeem you. But 
for those 

That stir this hubbub — you and you 
— I know 

Your faces there in the crowd — to- 
morrow morn 

We hold a great convention ; then 
shall they 49 o 

That love their voices more than duty, 
learn 

With whom they deal, dismiss'd in 
shame to live 

No wiser than their mothers, house- 
hold stuff, 




1 They to and fro 
Fluctuated, as flowers in storm, some red, some pale ' 



i88 



THE PRINCESS 



Live chattels, mincers of each other's 

fame, 
Full of weak poison, turnspits for the 

clown, 
The drunkard's football, laughing- 
stocks of Time, 
Whose brains are in their hands and 

in their heels, 
But fit to flaunt, to dress, to dance, to 

thrum, 
To tramp, to scream, to burnish, and 

to scour, 
For ever slaves at home and fools 

abroad.' 500 

She, ending, waved her hands ; 

thereat the crowd 
Muttering, dissolved ; then with a 

smile, that look'd 
A stroke of cruel sunshine on the 

cliff, 
When all the glens are drown' d in 

azure gloom 
Of thunder-shower, she floated to us 

and said : 

'You have done well and like a 

gentleman, 
And like a prince ; you have our 

thanks for all. 
And you look well too in your woman's 

dress. 
Well have you done and like a gentle- 
man. 
You saved our life ; we owe you bitter 

thanks. 510 

Better have died and spilt our bones in 

the flood — 
Then men had said — but now — what 

hinders me 
To take such bloody vengeance on you 

both ? — 
Yet since our father — wasps in our 

good hive, 
You would-be quenchers of the light 

to be, 
Barbarians, grosser than your native 

bears — 
O, would I had his sceptre for one 

hour ! 
You that have dared to break our 

bound, and gull'd 
Our servants, wrong'd and lied and 

thwarted us — 
I wed with thee ! /bound by precon- 
tract 520 



Your bride, your bondslave ! not tho' 

all the gold 
That veins the world were pack'd to 

make your crown, 
And every spoken tongue should lord 

you. Sir, 
Your falsehood and yourself are hate- 
ful to us ; 
I trample on your offers and on 

you. 
Begone ; we will not look upon you 

more. 
Here, push them out at gates.' 

In wrath she spake. 
Then those eight mighty daughters of 

the plough 
Bent their broad faces toward us and 

address' d 
Their motion. Twice I sought to plead 

my cause, 530 

But on my shoulder hung their heavy 

hands, 
The weight of destiny; so from her 

face 
They push'd us, down the steps, and 

thro' the court, 
And with grim laughter thrust us out 

at gates. 

We cross'd the street and gain'd a 

petty mound 
Beyond it, whence we saw the lights 

and heard 
The voices murmuring. While I lis- 

ten'd, came 
On a sudden the weird seizure and the 

doubt. 
I seem'd to move among a world of 

ghosts ; 
The Princess with her monstrous 

woman-guard, 540 

The jest and earnest working side by 

side, 
The cataract and the tumult and the 

kings 
Were shadows ; and the long fantastic 

night 
With all its doings had and had not 

been, 
And all things were and were not. 

This went by 
As strangely as it came, and on my 

spirits 
Settled a gentle cloud of melancholy — 
Not long ; I shook it off ; for spite of 

doubts 



PART FIFTH 



189 






And sudden ghostly shadowings I was 
one 

To whom the touch of all mischance 
but came 550 

As night to him that sitting on a 
hill 

Sees the midsummer, midnight, Nor- 
way sun 

Set into sunrise ; then we moved away. 



INTERLUDE 

Thy voice is heard thro' rolling drums 

That beat to battle where he stands ; 
Thy face across his fancy comes, 

And gives the battle to his hands. 
A moment, while the trumpets blow, 

He sees his brood about thy knee ; 
The next, like fire he meets the foe, 

And strikes him dead for thine and thee. 

So Lilia sang. We thought her half- 

possess'd, 
She struck such warbling fury thro' 

the words ; 10 

And, after, feigning pique at what she 

call'd 
The raillery, or grotesque, or false sub- 
lime — 
Like one that wishes at a dance to 

change 
The music — clapt her hands and cried 

for war, 
Or some grand fight to kill and make 

an end. 
And he that next inherited the tale, 
Half turning to the broken statue, 

said, 
1 Sir Ralph has got your colors ; if I 

prove 
Your knight, and fight your battle, 

what for me ? ' 
It chanced, her empty glove upon the 

tomb 20 

Lay by her like a model of her 

hand. 
She took it and she flung it. ' Fight/ 

she said, 
1 And make us all we would be, great 

and good/ 
He knightlike in his cap instead of 

casque, 
A cap of Tyrol borrow' d from the 

hall, 
Arranged the favor, and assumed the 

Prince. 



Now, scarce three paces measured from 

the mound, 
We stumbled on a stationary voice, 
And ' Stand, who goes ? ' ' Two from 

the palace/ I. 
1 The second two ; they wait,' he said, 

1 pass on ; 
His Highness wakes;' and one, that 

clash' d in arms, 
By glimmering lanes and walls of 

canvas led 
Threading the soldier-city, till we 

heard 
The drowsy folds of our great ensign 

shake 
From blazon' d lions o'er the imperial 

tent 
Whispers of war. 

Entering, the sudden light 
Dazed me half-blind. I stood and 

seem'd to hear, n 

As in a poplar grove when a light 

wind wakes 
A lisping of the innumerous leaf and 

dies, 
Each hissing in his neighbor's ear ; 

and then 
A strangled titter, out of which there 

brake 
On all sides, clamoring etiquette to 

death, 
Unmeasured mirth ; while now the two 

old kings 
Began to wag their baldness up and 

down, 
The fresh young captains flash'd their 

glittering teeth, 
The huge bush-bearded barons heaved 

and blew, 20 

And slain with laughter roll'd the 

gilded squire. 

At length my sire, his rough cheek 

wet with tears, 
Panted from weary sides, ' King, you 

are free ! 
We did but keep you surety for our 

son, 
If this be he, — or a draggled mawkin, 

thou, 
That tends her bristled grunters in the 

sludge ; ' 
For I was drench'd with ooze, and torn 

with briers, 



190 



THE PRINCESS 



More crumpled than a poppy from the 

sheath, 
And all one rag, disprinced from head 

to heel. 
Then some one sent beneath his vaulted 

palm 30 

A whisper'd jest to some one near him, 

' Look, 
He has been among his shadows.' 

' Satan take 
The old women and their shadows ! ' — 

thus the king 
Roar'd — ' make yourself a man to 

right with men. 
Go ; Cyril told us all/ 

As boys that slink 
From ferule and the trespass- chiding 

eye, 
Away we stole, and transient in a 

trice 
From what was left of faded woman- 
slough 
To sheathing splendors and the golden 

scale 
Of harness, issued in the sun, that now 
Leapt from the dewy shoulders of the 

earth, 41 

And hit the Northern hills. Here 

Cyril met us, 
A little shy at first, but by and by 
We twain, with mutual pardon ask'd 

and given 
For stroke and song, resolder'd peace, 

whereon 
Follow'd his tale. Amazed he fled 

away 
Thro' the dark land, and later in the 

night 
Had come on Psyche weeping : ' then 

we fell 
Into your father's hand, and there she 

lies, 
But will not speak nor stir.' 

He show'd a tent 
A stone-shot off ; we enter'd in, and 

there 51 

Among piled arms and rough accou- 
trements, 
Pitiful sight, wrapp'd in a soldier's 

cloak, 
Like some sweet sculpture draped 

from head to foot, 
And push'd by rude hands from its 

pedestal, 
All her fair length upon the ground 

she lay ; 



And at her head a follower of the 
camp, 

A charr'd and wrinkled piece of wo- 
manhood, 

Sat watching like a watcher by the 
dead. 

Then Florian knelt, and ' Come,' 

he whisper'd to her, 60 

1 Lift up your head, sweet sister ; lie 

not thus. 
What have you done but right ? you 

could not slay 
Me, nor your prince ; look up, be 

comforted. 
Sweet is it to have done the thing one 

ought, 
When fallen in darker ways.' And 

likewise I : 
' Be comforted ; have I not lost her too, 
In whose least act abides the nameless 

charm 
That none has else for me ? ' She 

heard, she moved, 
She moan'd a folded voice; and up 

she sat, 
And raised the cloak from brows as 

pale and smooth 70 

As those that mourn half-shrouded 

over death 
In deathless marble. ' Her/ she said, 

' my friend — 
Parted from her — betray'd her cause 

and mine — 
Where shall I breathe ? why kept ye 

not your faith ? 
O base and bad ! what comfort ? none 

for me ! * 
To whom remorseful Cyril, 'Yet I 

pray 
Take comfort ; live, dear lady, for 

your child ! ' 
At which she lifted up her voice and 

cried : 

1 Ah me, my babe, my blossom, ah, 

my child, 
My one sweet child, whom I shall see 

no more ! 80 

For now will cruel Ida keep her back ; 
And either she will die from want of 

care, 
Or sicken with ill-usage, when they 

say 
The child is hers — for every little 

fault, 



PART FIFTH 



191 




' All her fair length upon the ground she lay ; 
And at her head a follower of the camp ' 



The child is hers ; and they will beat 

my girl 
Remembering her mother — O my 

flower ! 
Or they will take her, they will make 

her hard, 
And she will pass me by in after-life 
With some cold reverence worse than 

were she dead. 
Ill mother that I was to leave her 

there, 90 

To lag behind, scared by the cry they 

made, 
The horror of the shame among them 

all. 
But I will go and sit beside the doors, 
And make a wild petition night and 

day, 
Until they hate to hear me like a wind 
Wailing for ever, till they open to me, 
And lay my little blossom at my feet, 
My babe, my sweet Agla'ia, my one 

child ; 
And I will take her up and go my way, 
And satisfy my soul with kissing her. 
Ah ! what might that man not de- 
serve of me 101 



Who gave me back my child ? ' 'Be 

comforted,' 
Said Cyril, ' you shall have it ; ' but 

again, 
She veil'd her brows, and prone she 

sank, and so, 
Like tender things that being caught 

feign death, 
Spoke not, nor stirr'd. 

By this a murmur ran 
Thro' all the camp, and inward raced 

the scouts 
With rumor of Prince Arac hard at 

hand. 
We left her by the woman, and with- 
out 
Found the gray kings at parle ; and 

'Look you,' cried no 

My father, ' that our compact be f ul- 

fill'd. 
You have spoilt this child ; she laughs 

at you and man ; 
She wrongs herself, her sex, and me, 

and him. 
But red-faced war has rods of steel 

and fire ; 
She yields, or war.' 



192 



THE PRINCESS 



Then Gama turn'd to me : 
* We fear, indeed, you spent a stormy 

time 
With our strange girl ; and yet they 

say that still 
You love her. Give us, then, your 

mind at large : 
How say you, war or not ? '■ 

1 Not war, if possible, 

king,' I said, 'lest from the abuse 

of war, 120 

The desecrated shrine, the trampled 

year, 
The smouldering homestead, and the 

household flower 
Torn from the lintel — all the common 

wrong — 
Asmoke go up thro' which I loom to her 
Three times a monster. Now she 

lightens scorn 
At him that mars her plan, but then 

would hate — 
And every voice she talk'd with ratify 

it, 
And every face she look'd on justify 

it — 
The general foe. More soluble is this 

knot 
By gentleness than war. I want her 

love. 130 

What were I nigher this altho' we 

dash'd 
Your cities into shards with cata- 
pults?— 
She would not love — or brought her 

chain'd, a slave, 
The lifting of whose eyelash is my lord? 
Not ever would she love, but brood- 
ing turn 
The book of scorn, till all my flitting 

chance 
Were caught within the record of her 

wrongs 
And crush'd to death; and rather, 

Sire, than this 

1 would the old god of war himself 

were dead, 
Forgotten, rusting on his iron hills, 140 
Rotting on some wild shore with ribs 

of wreck, 
Or like an old-world mammoth bulk'd 

in ice, 
Not to be molten out.' 

And roughly spake 
My father : ' Tut, you know them 

not, the girls. 



Boy, when I hear you prate I almost 

think 
That idiot legend credible. Look you, 

sir ! 
Man is the hunter ; woman is his game. 
The sleek and shining creatures of the 

chase, 
We hunt them for the beauty of their 

skins ; 
They love us for it, and we ride them 

down. 150 

Wheedling and siding with them ! 

Out ! for shame ! 
Boy, there 's no rose that 's half so 

dear to them 
As he that does the thing they dare 

not do, 
Breathing and sounding beauteous 

battle, comes 
With the air of the trumpet round 

him, and leaps in 
Among the women, snares them by 

the score 
Flatter'd and fluster'd, wins, tho' 

dash'd with death 
He reddens what he kisses. Thus I 

won 
Your mother, a good mother, a good 

wife, 
Worth winning ; but this firebrand — 

gentleness 160 

To such as her ! if Cyril spake her 

true, 
To catch a dragon in a cherry net, 
To trip a tigress with a gossamer, 
Were wisdom to it.' 

'Yea, but, Sire,' I cried, 
' Wild natures need wise curbs. The 

soldier ? No ! 
What dares not Ida do that she should 

prize 
The soldier ? I beheld her, when she 

rose 
The yesternight, and storming in ex- 
tremes 
Stood for her cause, and flung defiance 

down 
Gagelike to man, and had not shunn'd 

the death, 170 

No, not the soldier's ; yet I hold her, 

king, 
True woman ; but you clash them all 

in one, 
That have as many differences as we. 
The violet varies from the lily as 

far 



PART FIFTH 



J 93 



As oak from elm. One loves the sol- 
dier, one 
The silken priest of peace, one this, 

one that, 
And some unworthily ; their sinless 

faith, 
A maiden moon that sparkles on a sty, 
Glorifying clown and satyr; whence 

they need 
More breadth of culture. Is not Ida 

right ? 180 

They worth it ? truer to the law within ? 
Severer in the logic of a life ? 
Twice as magnetic to sweet influences 
Of earth and heaven ? and she of whom 

you speak, 
My mother, looks as whole as some 

serene 
Creation minted in the golden moods 
Of sovereign artists ; not a thought, a 

touch, 
But pure as lines of green that streak 

the white 
Of the first snowdrop's inner leaves ; I 

say, 
Not like the piebald miscellany, man, 
Bursts of great heart and slips in sen- 
sual mire, 191 
But whole and one ; and take them all- 
in-all, 
Were we ourselves but half as good, 

as kind, 
As truthful, much that Ida claims as 

right 
Had ne'er been mooted, but as frankly 

theirs 
As dues of Nature. To our point ; not 

war, 
Lest I lose all.' 

'Nay, nay, you spake but sense,' 
Said Gama. ' We remember love our- 

self 
In our sweet youth ; we did not rate 

him then 
This red-hot iron to be shaped with 

blows. 200 

You talk almost like Ida ; she can talk ; 
And there is something in it as you say : 
But you talk kindlier ; we esteem you 

for it. — 
He seems a gracious and a gallant 

Prince, 
I would he had our daughter. For the 

rest, 
Our own detention, why, the causes 

weigh'd, 



Fatherly fears — you used us cour- 
teously — 
We would do much to gratify your 

Prince — 
We pardon it ; and for your ingress 

here 
Upon the skirt and fringe of our fair 

land, 2IO 

You did but come as goblins in the 

night, 
Nor in the furrow broke the plough- 
man's head, 
Nor burnt the grange, nor buss'd the 

milking-maid, 
Nor robb'd the farmer of his bowl of 

cream. 
But let your Prince — our royal word 

upon it, 
He comes back safe — ride with us to 

our lines, 
And speak with Arac. Arac's word is 

thrice 
As ours with Ida ; something may be 

done — 
I know not what — and ours shall see 

us friends. 
You, likewise, our late guests, if so 

you will, 220 

Follow us. Who knows ? we four may 

build some plan 
Foursquare to opposition.' 

Here he reach'd 
White hands of farewell to my sire, 

who grow I'd 
An answer which, half -muffled in his 

beard, 
Let so much out as gave us leave to go. 

Then rode we with the old king 

across the lawns 
Beneath huge trees, a thousand rings 

of Spring 
In every bole, a song on every spray 
Of birds that piped their Valentines, 

and woke 
Desire in me to infuse my tale of love 
In the old king's ears, who promised 

help, and oozed 231 

All o'er with honey'd answer as we 

rode ; 
And blossom-fragrant slipt the heavy 

dews 
Gather'd by night and peace, with 

each light air 
On our mail'd heads. But other 

thoughts than peace 



194 



THE PRINCESS 



Burnt in us, when we saw the embat- 
tled squares 
And squadrons of the Prince, tram- 
pling the flowers 
With clamor ; for among them rose a 

cry 
As if to greet the king ; they made a 

halt; 
The horses yell'd; they clash'd their 

arms ; the drum 240 

Beat ; merrily-blowing shrill' d the 

martial fife ; 
And in the blast and bray of the long 

horn 
And serpent-throated bugle, undulated 
The banner. Anon to meet us lightly 

pranced 
Three captains out ; nor ever had I seen 
Such thews of men. The midmost and 

the highest 
Was Arac ; all about his motion 

clung 
The shadow of his sister, as the beam 
Of the East, that play'd upon them, 

made them glance 
Like those three stars of the airy 

Giant's zone, 250 

That glitter burnish' d by the frosty 

dark; 
And as the fiery Sirius alters hue, 
And bickers into red and emerald, 

shone 
Their morions, wash'd with morning, 

as they came. 

And I that prated peace, when first 

I heard 
War-music, felt the blind wild-beast 

of force, 
Whose home is in the sinews of a 

man, 
Stir in me as to strike. Then took the 

king 
His three broad sons ; with now a 

wandering hand 
And now a pointed finger, told them 

all. 260 

A common light of smiles at our dis- 
guise 
Broke from their lips, and, ere the 

windy jest 
Had labor'd down within his ample 

lungs, 
The genial giant, Arac, roll'd himself 
Thrice in the saddle, then burst out in 

words : 



' Our land invaded, 'sdeath ! and he 

himself 
Your captive, yet my father wills not 

war ! 
And, 'sdeath ! myself, what care I, 

war or no ? 
But then this question of your troth 

remains ; 
And there 's a downright honest mean- 
ing in her. 270 
She flies too high, she flies too high ! 

and yet 
She ask'd but space and fair-play for 

her scheme ; 
She pre st and prest it on me — I myself, 
What know I of these things ? but, life 

and soul ! 
I thought her half -right talking of her 

wrongs ; 
I say she flies too high, 'sdeath ! what 

of that? 
I take her for the flower of womankind, 
And so I often told her, right or wrong ; 
And, Prince, she can be sweet to those 

she loves, 
And, right or wrong, I care not ; this 

is all, 280 

I stand upon her side ; she made me 

swear it — 
'Sdeath! — and with solemn rites by 

candle-light — 
Swear by Saint something — I. forget 

her name — 
Her that talk'd down the fifty wisest 

men; 
She was a princess too ; and so I swore. 
Come, this is all ; she will not ; waive 

your claim. 
If not, the foughten field, what else, 

at once 
Decides it, 'sdeath ! against my father s 

will.' 

I lagg'd in answer, loth to render up 
My precontract, and loth by brainless 

war 290 

To cleave the rift of difference deeper 

yet; 
Till one of those two brothers, half aside 
And fingering at the hair about his lip, 
To prick us on to combat, 'Like to 

like ! 
The woman's garment hid the woman's 

heart.' 
A taunt that clench'd his purpose like 

a blow ! 



PART FIFTH 



*95 



?or fiery-short was Cyril's counter- 
scoff, 

And sharp I answer'd, touch'd upon 
the point 

Where idle boys are cowards to their 
shame, 

1 Decide it here ; why not ? we are three 
to three.' 300 

Then spake the third : ' But three 

to three ? no more ? 
No more, and in our noble sister's 

cause ? 
More, more, for honor ! every captain 

waits 
Hungry for honor, angry for his king. 
More, more, some fifty on a side, that 

each 
May breathe himself, and quick ! by 

overthrow 
Of these or those, the question settled 

die.' 

'Yea,' answer'd I, 'for this wild 

wreath of air, 
This flake of rainbow flying on the 

highest 
Foam of men's deeds — this honor, if 

ye will. 310 

It needs must be for honor if at all ; 
Since, what decision ? if we fail we 

fail, 
And if we win we fail ; she would not 

keep 
Her compact.' "Sdeath ! but we will 

send to her,' 
Said Arac, ' worthy reasons why she 

should 
Bide by this issue; let our missive 

thro', 
And you shall have her answer by the 

word. ' 

' Boys ! ' shriek' d the old king, but 

vainlier than a hen 
To her false daughters in the pool ; 

for none 
Regarded ; neither seem'd there more 

to say. 320 

Back rode we to my father's camp, 

and found 
He thrice had sent a herald to the 

gates, 
To learn if Ida yet would cede our 

claim, 
Or by denial flush her babbling wells 



With her own people's life; three 

times he went. 
The first, he blew and blew, but none 

appear'd ; 
He batter' d at the doors, none came ; 

the next, 
An awful voice within had warn'd 

him thence ; 
The third, and those eight daughters 

of the plough 
Came sallying thro' the gates, and 

caught his hair, 33 o 

And so belabor'd him on rib and cheek 
They made him wild. Not less one 

glance he caught 
Thro' open doors of Ida station' d there 
Unshaken, clinging to her purpose, 

firm 
Tho' compass'd by two armies and 

the noise 
Of arms ; and standing like a stately 

pine 
Set in a cataract on an island- crag, 
When storm is on the heights, and 

right and left 
Suck'd from the dark heart of the 

long hills roll 
The torrents, dash'd to the vale ; and 

yet her will 340 

Bred will in me to overcome it or fall. 

But when I told the king that I 

was pledged 
To fight in tourney for my bride, he 

clash'd 
His iron palms together with a cry ; 
Himself would tilt it out among the 

lads; 
But overborne by all his bearded lords 
With reasons drawn from age and 

state, perforce 
He yielded, wroth and red, with fierce 

demur ; 
And many a bold knight started up 

in heat, 
And sware to combat for my claim 

till death. 350 

All on this side the palace ran the 

field 
Flat to the garden-wall ; and likewise 

here, 
Above the garden's glowing blossom 

belts, 
A column' d entry shone and marble 

stairs, 



196 



THE PRINCESS 



And great bronze valves, emboss'd 
with Tomyris 

And what she did to Cyrus after fight, 

But now fast barr'd. So here upon 
the flat 

All that long morn the lists were 
hammer' d up, 

And all that morn the heralds to and 
fro, 

With message and defiance, went and 
came ; 360 

Last, Ida's answer, in a royal hand, 

But shaken here and there, and roll- 
ing words 

Oration-like. I kiss'd it and I read : 

'O brother, you have known the 

pangs we felt, 
What heats of indignation when we 

heard 
Of those that iron-cramp'd their wo- 
men's feet ; » 
Of lands in which at the altar the 

poor bride 
Gives her harsh groom for bridal-gift 

a scourge ; 
Of living hearts that crack within the 

fire 
Where smoulder their dead despots; 

and of those, — 370 

Mothers, — that, all prophetic pity, 

fling 
Their pretty maids in the running 

flood, and swoops 
The vulture, beak and talon, at the 

heart 
Made for all noble motion. And I saw 
That equal baseness lived in sleeker 

times 
With smoother men ; the old leaven 

leaven'd all ; 
Millions of throats would bawl for 

civil rights, 
No woman named ; therefore I set my 

face 
Against all men, and lived but for 

mine own. 
Far off from men I built a fold for 

them ; 380 

I stored it full of rich memorial ; 
I fenced it round with gallant insti- 
tutes, 
And biting laws to scare the beasts of 

prey, 
And prosper'd, till a rout of saucy 

boys 



Brake on us at our books, and marr'd 

our peace, 
Mask'd like our maids, blustering I 

know not what 
Of insolence and love, some pretext 

held 
Of baby troth, invalid, since my will 
Seal'd not the bond — the striplings! 

— for their sport ! — 
I tamed my leopards ; shall I not tame 

these ? 390 

Or you ? or I ? for since you think me 

touch' d 
In honor — what ! I would not aught 

of false — 
Is not our cause pure ? and whereas I 

know 
Your prowess, Arac, and what mo- 
ther's blood 
You draw from, fight ! You failing, 

I abide 
What end soever ; fail you will not. 

Still, 
Take not his life, he risk'd it for my 

own ; 
His mother lives. Yet whatsoe'er you 

do, 
Fight and fight well ; strike and strike 

home. O dear 
Brothers, the woman's angel guards 

you, you 4 oo 

The sole men to be mingled with our 

cause, 
The sole men we shall prize in the 

after-time, 
Your very armor hallow' d, and your 

statues 
Rear'd, sung to, when, this gadfly 

brush' d aside, 
We plant a solid foot into the Time, 
And mould a generation strong to 

move 
With claim on claim from right to 

right, till she 
Whose name is yoked with children's 

know herself ; 
And Knowledge in our own land 

make her free, 
And, ever following those two crowned 

twins, 410 

Commerce and Conquest, shower the 

fiery grain 
Of freedom broadcast over all that 

orbs 
Between the Northern and the South- 
ern morn.' 






PART FIFTH 



197 



Then came a postscript dash'd across 

the rest : 
1 See that there be no traitors in your 

camp. 
We seem a nest of traitors — none to 

trust 
Since our arms fail'd — this Egypt- 
plague of men ! 
Almost our maids were better at their 

homes, 
Than thus man-girdled here. Indeed 

I think 
Our chiefest comfort is the little child 
Of one unworthy mother, which she 

left. 421 

She shall not have it back; the child 

shall grow 
To prize the authentic mother of her 

mind. 
I .took it for an hour in mine own bed 
This morning ; there the tender orphan 

hands 
Felt at my heart, and seem'd to charm 

from thence 
The wrath I nursed against the world. 

Farewell.' 

I ceased; he said, 'Stubborn, but 

she may sit 
Upon a king's right hand in thunder- 
storms, 
And breed up warriors! See now, 

tho' yourself 430 

Be dazzled by the wildfire Love to 

sloughs 
That swallow common sense, the 

spindling king, 
This Gama swamp'd in lazy tolerance. 
When the man wants weight, the wo- 
man takes it up, 
And topples down the scales; but 

this is fixt 
As are the roots of earth and base of 

all,— 
Man for the field and woman for the 

hearth ; 
Man for the sword, and for the needle 

she; 
Man with the head, and woman with 

the heart ; 
Man to command, and woman to 

obey ; 440 

All else confusion. Look you ! the 

gray mare 
Is ill to live with, when her whinny 

shrills 



From tile to scullery, and her small 

goodman 
Shrinks in his arm-chair while the 

fires of hell 
Mix with his hearth. But you — she 's 

yet a colt — 
Take, break her; strongly groom'd 

and straitly curb'd 
She might not rank with those detest- 
able 
That let the bantling scald at home, 

and brawl 
Their rights or wrongs like potherbs 

in the street. 
They say she 's comely ; there 's the 

fairer chance. 450 

I like her none the less for rating at 

her ! 
Besides, the woman wed is not as we, 
But suffers change of frame. A lusty 

brace 
Of twins may weed her of her folly. 

Boy, 
The bearing and the training of a child 
Is woman's wisdom.' 

Thus the hard old king. 
I took my leave, for it was nearly 

noon; 
I pored upon her letter which I held, 
And on the little clause, ' take not his 

life ; ' 
I mused on that wild morning in the 

woods, 460 

And on the 'Follow, follow, thou 

shalt win ; ' 
I thought on all the wrathful king 

had said, 
And how the strange betrothment 

was to end. 
Then I remember'd that burnt sor- 
cerer's curse 
That one should fight with shadows 

and should fall ; 
And like a flash the weird affection 

came. 
King, camp, and college turn'd to hol- 
low shows ; 
I seem'd to move in old memorial tilts, 
And doing battle with forgotten 

ghosts, 
To dream myself the shadow of a 

dream ; 47^ 

And ere I woke it was the point of 

noon, 
The lists were ready. Empanopliod 

and plumed 



198 



THE PRINCESS 



We enter'd in, and waited, fifty there 
Opposed to fifty, till the trumpet 

blared 
At the barrier like a wild horn in a 

land 
Of echoes, and a moment, and once 

more 
The trumpet, and again ; at which the 

storm 
Of galloping hoofs bare on the ridge 

of spears 
And riders front to front, until they 

closed 
In conflict with the crash of shivering 

points, 480 

And thunder. Yet it seem'd a dream, 

I dream' d 
Of fighting. On his haunches rose the 

steed, 
And into fiery splinters leapt the lance, 
And out of stricken helmets sprang the 

fire. 
Part sat like rocks ; part reel'd but 

kept their seats ; 
Part roll'd on the earth and rose again 

and drew ; 
Part stumbled mixt with floundering 

horses. Down 
From those two bulks at Arac's side, 

and down 
From Arac's arm, as from a giant's 

flail, 
The large blows rain'd, as here and 

everywhere 490 

He rode the mellay, lord of the ringing 

lists, 
And all the plain — brand, mace, and 

shaft, and shield — 
Shock'd, like an iron-clanging anvil 

bang'd 
With hammers ; till I thought, can 

this be he 
From Gama's dwarfish loins? if this 

be so, 
The mother makes us most — and in 

my dream 
I glanced aside, and saw the palace- 
front 
Alive with fluttering scarfs and ladies' 

eyes, 
And highest, among the statues, 

statue-like, 
Between a cymbal'd Miriam and a Jael, 
With Psyche's babe, was Ida watch- 
ing US, 501 
A single band of gold about her hair, 



Like a saint's glory up in heaven ; but 

she, 
No saint — inexorable — no tender- 
ness — 
Too hard, too cruel. Yet she sees me 

fight, 
Yea, let her see me fall. With that I 

drave 
Among the thickest and bore down a 

prince, 
And Cyril one. Yea, let me make my 

dream 

All that I would. But that large- 
moulded man, 
His visage all agrin as at a wake, 510 
Made at me thro' the press, and, stag- 
gering back 
With stroke on stroke the horse and 

horseman, came 
As comes a pillar of electric cloud, 
Flaying the roofs and sucking up the 

drains, 
And shadowing down the champaign 

till it strikes 
On a wood, and takes, and breaks, and 

cracks, and splits, 
And twists the grain with such a roar 

that Earth 
Reels, and the herdsmen cry ; for every- 
thing 
Gave way before him. Only Florian, 

he 
That loved me closer than his own 

right eye, 520 

Thrust in between ; but Arac rode him 

down. 
And Cyril seeing it, push'd against the 

Prince, 
With Psyche's color round his helmet, 

tough, 
Strong, supple, sinew-corded, apt at 

arms ; 
But tougher, heavier, stronger, he that 

smote 
And threw him. Last I spurr'd; I 

felt my veins 
Stretch with fierce heat ; a moment 

hand to hand, 
And sword to sword, and horse to 

horse we hung, 
Till I struck out and shouted ; the blade 

glanced, 
I did but shear a feather, and dream 

and truth 530 

Flow'd from me ; darkness closed me, 

and I fell. 



PART SIXTH 



Home they brought her warrior dead ; 

She nor swoon' d nor utter' d cry. 
All her maidens, watching, said, 

' She must weep or she will die.' 

Then they praised him, soft and low, 
Call'd him worthy to be loved, 

Truest friend and noblest foe ; 
Yet she neither spoke nor moved. 

Stole a maiden from her place, 5 

Lightly to the warrior stept, 

Took the face-cloth from the face ; 
Yet she neither moved nor wept. 



199 



Kose a nurse of ninety years, 
Set his child upon her knee — 

Like summer tempest came her tears 
' Sweet my child, I live for thee.' 



YI 



My 



dream had never died or lived 
again ; 

As in some mystic middle state I lay. 
Seeing I saw not, hearing not I heard ; 
Tho', if I saw not, yet they told me all 
So often that I speak as having seen. 




i Like summer tempest came her tears — 
" Sweet my child, I live for thee " ' 



200 



THE PRINCESS 



For so it seem'd, or so they said to 

me, 
That all things grew more tragic and 

more strange ; 
That when our side was vanquish'd and 

my cause 
For ever lost, there went up a great 

cry, 

' The Prince is slain ! ' My father heard 
and ran 10 

In on the lists, and there unlaced my 
casque 

And grovell'd on my body, and after 
him 

Came Psyche, sorrowing for Aglai'a. 

But high upon the palace Ida stood 
With Psyche's babe in arm ; there on 

the roofs 
Like that great dame of Lapidoth she 

sang. 

' Our enemies have fallen, have fallen : 

the seed, 
The little seed they laugh'd at in the dark, 
Has risen and cleft the soil, and grown a 

bulk 
Of spanless girth, that lays on every side 20 
A thousand arms and rushes to the sun. 

'Our enemies have fallen, have fallen 

they came ; 
The leaves were wet with women's tears ; 

they heard 
A noise of songs they would not understand ; 
They mark'd it with the red cross to the fall, 
And" would have strown it, and are fallen 

themselves. 

'Our enemies have fallen, have fallen: 

they came, 
The woodmen with their axes : lo the tree ! 
But we will make it faggots for the hearth, 
And shape it plank and beam for roof and 

floor, 30 

And boats and bridges for the use of men. 

' Our enemies have fallen, have fallen ; 

they struck ; 
With their own blows they hurt themselves, 

nor knew 
There dwelt an iron nature in the grain ; 
The glittering axe was broken in their arms, 
Their arms were shatter' d to the shoulder 

blade. 

' Our enemies have fallen, but this shall 

grow 
A night of Summer from the heat, a breadth 
Of Autumn, dropping fruits of power ; and 

roll'd 



With music in the growing breeze of Time, 
The tops shall strike from star to star, the 
fangs 41 

Shall move the stony bases of the world. 

' And now, O maids, behold our 

sanctuary 
Is violate, our laws broken ; fear we not 
To break them more in their behoof, 

whose arms 
Champion' d our cause and won it with 

a day 
Blanch'd in our annals, and perpetual 

feast, 
When dames and heroines of the 

golden year 
Shall strip a hundred hollows bare of 

Spring, 
To rain an April of ovation round 50 
Their statues, borne aloft, the three ; 

but come, 
We will be liberal, since our rights are 

won. 
Let them not lie in the tents with 

coarse mankind, 
111 nurses ; but descend, and proffer 

these 
The brethren of our blood and cause, 

that there 
Lie bruised and maim'd, the tender 

ministries 
Of female hands and hospitality.' 

She spoke, and with the babe yet in 

her arms, 
Descending, burst the great bronze 

valves, and led 
A hundred maids in train across the 

park. 60 

Some cowl'd, and some bare-headed, 

on they came, 
Their feet in flowers, her loveliest. 

By them went 
The enamor'd air sighing, and on their 

curls 
From the high tree the blossom wav- 
ering fell, 
And over them the tremulous isles of 

light 
Slided, they moving under shade ; but 

Blanche 
At distance follow'd. So they came : 

anon 
Thro' open field into the lists they 

wound 
Timorously ; and as the leader of the 

herd 



PART SIXTH 



20I 



That holds a stately fretwork to the 
sun, 7 o 

And follow'd up by a hundred airy 
does, 

Steps with a tender foot, light as on 
air, 

The lovely, lordly creature floated on 

To where her wounded brethren lay ; 
there stay'd, 

Knelt on one knee, — the child on one, 
— and prest 

Their hands, and call'd them dear de- 
liverers, 

And happy warriors, and immortal 
names, 

And said, ' You shall not lie in the 
tents, but here, 

And nursed by those for whom you 
fought, and served 

With female hands and hospitality.' 80 

Then, whether moved by this, or 

was it chance, 
She past my way. Up started from 

my side 
The old lion, glaring with his whelp- 
less eye, 
Silent ; but when she saw me lying 

stark, 
Dishelm'd and mute, and motionlessly 

pale, 
Cold even to her, she sigh'd ; and 

when she saw 
The haggard father's face and rever- 
end beard 
Of grisly twine, all dabbled with the 

blood 
Of his own son, shudder' d, a twitch of 

pain 
Tortured her mouth, and o'er her 

forehead past 90 

A shadow, and her hue changed, and 

she said : 
' He saved my life ; my brother slew 

him for it. ' 
No more ; at which the king in bitter 

scorn 
Drew from my neck the painting and 

the tress, 
And held them up. She saw them, 

and a day 
Rose from the distance on her memory, 
When the good queen, her mother, 

shore the tress 
With kisses, ere the days of Lady 

Blanche. 



And then once more she look'd at my 

pale face ; 99 

Till understanding all the foolish work 
Of Fancy, and the bitter close of all, 
Her iron will was broken in her mind ; 
Her noble heart was molten in her 

breast ; 
She bow'd, she set the child on the 

earth ; she laid 
A feeling finger on my brows, and 

presently 
'O Sire,' she said, 'he lives; he is 

not dead ! 
O, let me have him with my brethren 

here 
In our own palace ; we will tend on 

him 
Like one of these ; if so, by any 

means, 
To lighten this great clog of thanks, 

that make no 

Our progress falter to the woman's 

goal.' 

She said ; but at the happy word 

' he lives ! ' 
My father stoop'd, re-father'd o'er my 

wounds. 
So those two foes above my fallen 

life, 
With brow to brow like night and 

evening mixt 
Their dark and gray, while Psyche 

ever stole 
A little nearer, till the babe that by 

us, 
Half-lapt in glowing gauze and golden 

brede, 
Lay like a new-fallen meteor on the 

grass, 
Uncared for, spied its mother and 

began 120 

A blind and babbling laughter, and to 

dance 
Its body, and reach its fatling inno- 
cent arms 
And lazy lingering fingers. She the 

appeal 
Brook'd not, but clamoring out ' Mine 

— mine — not yours ! 
It is not yours, but mine ; give me the 

child ! ' 
Ceased all on tremble; piteous was 

the cry. 
So stood the unhappy mother open- 

mouth'd, 



202 



THE PRINCESS 



And turn'd each face her way. Wan 

was her cheek 
With hollow watch, her blooming 

mantle torn, 
Red grief and mother's hunger in her 

eye, 130 

And down dead-heavy sank her curls, 

and half 
The sacred mother's bosom, panting, 

burst 
The laces toward her babe; but she 

nor cared 
Nor knew it, clamoring on, till Ida 

heard, 
Look'd up, and rising slowly from me, 

stood 
Erect and silent, striking with her 

glance 
The mother, me, the child. But he 

that lay 
Beside us, Cyril, batter'd as he was, 
Trail'd himself up on one knee ; then 

he drew 
Her robe to meet his lips, and down 

she look'd 140 

At the arm'd man sideways, pitying 

as it seem'd, 
Or self -involved ; but when she learnt 

his face, 
Remembering his ill- omen' d song, 

arose 
Once more thro' all her height, and 

o'er him grew 
Tall as a figure lengthen' d on the sand 
When the tide ebbs in sunshine, and 

he said: 

' O fair and strong and terrible ! 

Lioness 
That with your long locks play the 

lion's mane ! 
But Love and Nature, these are two 

more terrible 
And stronger. See, your foot is on 

our necks, 150 

We vanquish'd, you the victor of your 

will. 
What would you more ? give her the 

child ! remain 
Orb'd in your isolation ; he is dead, 
Or all as dead : henceforth we let you 

be. 
Win you the hearts of women ; and 

beware 
Lest, where you seek the common 

love of these, 



The common hate with the revolving 

wheel 
Should drag you down, and some 

great Nemesis 
Break from a darken' d future, crown' d 

with fire, 
And tread you out for ever. But 

howsoe'er 160 

Fixt in yourself, never in your own 

arms 
To hold your own, deny not hers to 

her, 
Give her the child ! O, if, I say, you 

keep 
One pulse that beats true woman, if 

you loved 
The breast that fed or arm that dan- 
dled you, 
Or own one port of sense not flint to 

prayer, 
Give her the child ! or if you scorn to 

lay it, 
Yourself, in hands so lately claspt 

with yours, 
Or speak to her, your dearest, her one 

fault 
The tenderness, not yours, that could 

not kill, 170 

Give me it ; /will give it her.' 

He said. 
At first her eye with slow dilation 

roll'd 
Dry flame, she listening ; after sank 

and sank 
And, into mournful twilight mellow- 
ing, dwelt 
Full on the child. She took it ■ 

' Pretty bud ! 
Lily of the vale ! half-open'd bell of 

the woods ! 
Sole comfort of my dark hour, when 

a world 
Of traitorous friend and broken system 

made 
No purple in the distance, mystery, 
Pledge of a love not to be mine, fare- 
well ! 180 
These men are hard upon us as of old. 
We two must part ; and yet how fain 

was I 
To dream thy cause embraced in mine, 

to think 
I might be something,to thee, when I 

felt 
Thy helpless warmth about my barren 

breast 




' Then felt it sound and 
And hugg'd and never 



whole from head to foot, 
hugg'd it close enough ' 



In the dead prime ; but may thy mo- 
ther prove 

As true to thee as false, false, false to 
me ! 

And, if thou needs must bear the 
yoke, I wish it 

Gentle as freedom ' — here she kiss'd 
it ; then — 

'All good go with thee ! take it, sir,' 
and so 190 

Laid the soft babe in his hard-mailed 
hands, 

Who turn'd half-round to Psyche as 
she sprang 

To meet it, with an eye that swum in 
thanks ; 

Then felt it sound and whole from 
head to foot, 

And hugg'd and never hugg'd it close 
enough, 

And in her hunger mouth'd and mum- 
bled it, 



And hid her bosom with it; after 

that 
Put on more calm and added suppli- 

antly : 

1 We two were friends : I go to mine 
own land 

For ever. Find some other ; as for 
me 200 

I scarce am fit for your great plans : 
yet speak to me, 

Say one soft word and let me part for- 
given.' 

But Ida spoke not, rapt upon the 

child. 
ThenArac : 'Ida — 'sdeath I you blame 

the man ; 
You wrong yourselves — the woman 

is so hard 
Upon the woman. Come, a grace to 

me! 



204 



THE PRINCESS 



I am your warrior ; I and mine have 

fought 
Your battle. Kiss her ; take her hand, 

she weeps. 
'Sdeath ! I would sooner fight thrice 

o'er than see it.' 

But Ida spoke not, gazing on the 
ground. 210 

And reddening in the furrows of his 
chin, 

And moved beyond his custom, Gama 
said : 

'I've heard that there is iron in the 

blood, 
And I believe it. Not one word ? not 

one? 
Whence drew you this steel temper ? 

not from me, 
Not from your mother, now a saint 

with saints. 
She said you had a heart — I heard 

her say it — 
" Our Ida has a heart" — just ere she 

died — 
"But see that some one with authority 
Be near her still;" and I — I sought 

for one — 220 

All people said she had authority — 
The Lady Blanche — much profit ! 

Not one word ; 
No ! tho' your father sues. See how 

you stand 
Stiff as Lot's wife, and all the good 

knights maim'd, 
I trust that there is no one hurt to 

death, 
For your wild whim. And was it then 

for this, 
Was it for this we gave our palace 

up, 
Where we withdrew from summer 

heats and state, 
And had our wine and chess beneath 

the planes, 
And many a pleasant hour with her 

that's gone, 230 

Ere you were born to vex us ? Is it 

kind? 
Speak to her, I say ; is this not she of 

whom, 
When first she came, all flush'd you 

said to me, 
Now had you got a friend of your 

own age, 



Now could you share your thought, 

now should men see 
Two women faster welded in one 

love 
Than pairs of wedlock ? she you walk'd 

with, she 
You talk'd with, whole nights long, 

up in the tower, 
Of sine and arc, spheroid and azi- 
muth, 
And right ascension, heaven knows 

what ; and now 240 

A word, but one, one little kindly 

word, 
Not one to spare her ! Out upon you, 

flint! 
You love nor her, nor me, nor any; 

nay, 
You shame your mother's judgment 

too. Not one ? 
You will not ? well — no heart have 

you, or such 
As fancies like the vermin in a nut 
Have fretted all to dust and bitter- 
ness.' 
So said the small king moved beyond 

his wont. 

But Ida stood nor spoke, drain' d of 

her force 
By many a varying influence and so 

long. 250 

Down thro' her limbs a drooping 

languor wept ; 
Her head a little bent ; and on her 

mouth 
A doubtful smile dwelt like a clouded 

moon 
In a still water. Then brake out my 

sire, 
Lifting his grim head from my 

wounds : ' O you, 
Woman, whom we thought woman 

even now, 
And were half fool'd to let you tend 

our son, 
Because he might have wish'd it — but 

we see 
The accomplice of your madness un- 

forgiven, 
And think that you might mix his 

draught with death, 260 

When your skies change again; the 

rougher hand 
Is safer. On to the tents ; take up the 

Prince.' 



PART SIXTH 



2o.q 



He rose, and while each ear was 
prick' d to attend 
A tempest, thro' the cloud that dimm'd 

her broke 
A genial warmth and light once more, 

and shone 
Thro' glittering drops on her sad friend. 
' Come hither, 

Psyche,' she cried out, 'embrace 

me, come, 

Quick while I melt ; make reconcile- 
ment sure 

With one that cannot keep her mind 
an hour ; 

Come to the hollow heart they slander 
so ! 270 

Kiss and be friends, like children being 
chid! 

1 seem no more, I want forgiveness 

too ; 
I should have had to do with none 

but maids, 
That have no links with men. Ah 

false but dear, 
Dear traitor, too much loved, why ? — 

why ? — yet see 
Before these kings we embrace you yet 

once more 
With all forgiveness, all oblivion, 
And trust, not love, you less. 

And now, O Sire, 
Grant me your son, to nurse, to wait 

upon him, 
Like mine own brother. For my debt 

to him, 280 

This nightmare weight of gratitude, I 

know it. 
Taunt me no more ; yourself and yours 

shall have 
Free adit ; we will scatter all our 

maids 
Till happier times each to her proper 

hearth. 
What use to keep them here — now ? 

grant my prayer. 
Help, father, brother, help ; speak to 

the king ; 
Thaw this male nature to some touch 

of that 
Which kills me with myself, and 

drags me down 
From my fixt height to mob me up 

with all 
The soft and milky rabble of woman- 
kind, 290 
Poor weakling even as they are.' 



Passionate tears 
Follow'd ; the king replied not ; Cyril 

said : 
' Your brother, lady, — Florian, — ask 

for him 
Of your great Head — for he is 

wounded too — 
That you may tend upon him with the 

Prince.' 
'Ay, so,' said Ida with a bitter smile, 
' Our laws are broken ; let him enter 

too.' 
Then Violet, she that sang the mourn- 
ful song, 
And had a cousin tumbled on the plain, 
Petition'd too for him. ' Ay, so,' she 

said, 300 

' I stagger in the stream ; I cannot keep 
My heart an eddy from the brawling 

hour. 
We break our laws with ease, but let 

it be.' 
' Ay, so ?' said Blanche : 'Amazed am 

I to hear 
Your Highness ; but your Highness 

breaks with ease 
The law your Highness did not make ; 

't was I. 
I had been wedded wife, I knew man- 
kind, 
And block' d them out ; but these men 

came to woo 
Your Highness, — verily I think to 

win.' 

So she, and turn'd askance a wintry 
eye ; 310 

But Ida, with a voice that, like a bell 
Toll'd by an earthquake in a trembling 

tower, 
Rang ruin, answer'd full of grief and 
scorn : 

' Fling our doors wide ! all, all, not 

one, but all, 
Not only he, but by my mother's soul, 
Whatever man lies wounded, friend or 

foe, 
Shall enter, if he will ! Let our girls 

flit, 
Till the storm die ! but had you stood 

by us, 
The roar that breaks the Pharos from 

his base 
Had left us rock. She fain would st ing 

us too. 



2o6 



THE PRINCESS 



But shall not. Pass, and mingle with 

your likes. 
We brook no further insult, but are 

gone. ' 

She turn'd; the very nape of her 

white neck 
Was rosed with indignation ; but the 

Prince 
Her brother came ; the king her father 

charm' d 
Her wounded soul with words ; nor 

did mine own 
Refuse her proffer, lastly gave his 

hand. 

Then us they lifted up, dead 

weights, and bare 
Straight to the doors ; to them the 

doors gave way 
Groaning, and in the vestal entry 

shriek'd 330 

The virgin marble under iron heels. 
And on they moved and gain'd the 

hall, and there 
Rested ; but great the crush was, and 

each base, 
To left and right, of those tall col- 
umns drown' d 
In silken fluctuation and the swarm 
Of female whisperers. At the further 

end 
Was Ida by the throne, the two great 

cats 
Close by her, like supporters on a 

shield, 
Bow-back'd with fear; but in the 

centre stood 
The common men with rolling eyes ; 

amazed 34 o 

They glared upon the women, and 

aghast 
The women stared at these, all silent, 

save 
When armor clash'd or jingled, while 

the day, 
Descending, struck athwart the hall, 

and shot 
A flying splendor out of brass and 

steel. 
That o'er the statues leapt from head 

to head, 
Now fired an angry Pallas on the helm, 
Now set a wrathful Dian's moon on 

flame; 
And now and then an echo started up, 



And shuddering fled from room to 

room, and died 35 o 

Of fright in far apartments. 

Then the voice 
Of Ida sounded, issuing ordinance ; 
And me they bore up the broad stairs, 

and thro' 
The long-laid galleries past a hundred 

doors 
To one deep chamber shut from sound, 

and due 
To languid limbs and sickness, left 

me in it ; 
And others otherwhere they laid ; and 

all 
That afternoon a sound arose of hoof 
And chariot, many a maiden passing 

home 
Till happier times ; but some were 

left of those 360 

Held sagest, and the great lords out 

and in, 
From those two hosts that lay beside 

the wall, 
Walk'd at their will, and everything 

was changed. 

Ask me no more: the moon may draw the 
sea; 
The cloud may stoop from heaven and 

take the shape, 
With fold to fold, of mountain or of cape ; 
But O too fond, when have I answer' d thee? 
Ask me no more. 

Ask me no more: what answer should I 

give? 

I love not hollow cheek or faded eye: 370 

Yet, O my friend, I will not have thee die ! 

Ask me no more, lest I should bid thee live ; 

Ask me no more. 

Ask me no more: thy fate and mine are 
seal'd; 
I strove against the stream and all in vain ; 
Let the great river take me to the main. 
No more, dear love, for at a touch I yield ; 
Ask me no more. 



VII 

So was their sanctuary violated, 
So their fair college turn'd to hospital, 
At first with all confusion ; by and by 
Sweet order lived again with other 

laws, 
A kindlier influence reign'd, and 

everywhere 



PART SEVENTH 



207 



Low voices with the ministering hand 
Hung round the sick. The maidens 

came, they talk'd, 
They sang, they read ; till she not fair 

began 
To gather light, and she that was be- 
came 
Her former beauty treble ; and to and 

fro 10 

With books, with flowers, with angel 

offices, 
Like creatures native unto gracious 

act, 
And in their own clear element, they 

moved. 

But sadness on the soul of Ida fell, 
And hatred of her weakness, blent 

with shame. 
Old studies fail'd ; seldom she spoke ; 

but oft 
Clomb to the roofs, and gazed alone 

for hours 
On that disastrous leaguer, swarms of 

men 
Darkening her female field. Void 

was her use, 
And she as one that climbs a peak to 

gaze 20 

O'er land and main, and sees a great 

black cloud 
Drag inward from the deeps, a wall 

of night, 
Blot out the slope of sea from verge 

to shore, 
And suck the blinding splendor from 

the sand, 
And quenching lake by lake and tarn 

by tarn 
Expunge the world ; so fared she gaz- 
ing there, 
So blacken' d all her world in secret, 

blank 
And waste it seem'd and vain ; till 

down she came, 
And found fair peace once more among 

the sick. 

And twilight dawn'd ; and morn by 
morn the lark 30 

Shot up and shrill'd in flickering gyres, 
but I 

Lay silent in the muffled cage of 
life. 

And twilight gloom'd, and broader- 
grown the bowers 



Drew the great night into themselves, 
and heaven, 

Star after star, arose and fell ; but I, 

Deeper than those weird doubts could 
reach me, lay 

Quite sunder' d from the moving Uni- 
verse, 

Nor knew what eye was on me, nor 
the hand 

That nursed me, more than infants in 
their sleep. 

But Psyche tended Florian ; with 

her oft 40 

Melissa came, for Blanche had gone, 

but left 
Her child among us, willing she should 

keep 
Court-favor. Here and there the small 

bright head, 
A light of healing, glanced about the 

couch, 
Or thro' the parted silks the tender 

face 
Peep'd, shining in upon the wounded 

man 
With blush and smile, a medicine in 

themselves 
To wile the length from languorous 

hours, and draw 
The sting from pain; nor seem'd it 

strange that soon 
He rose up whole, and those fair char- 
ities 50 
Join'd at her side ) nor stranger seem'd 

that hearts 
So gentle, so employ'd, should close 

in love, 
Than when two dewdrops on the 

petal shake 
To the same sweet air, and tremble 

deeper down, 
And slip at once all-fragrant into one. 

Less prosperously the second suit 
obtain'd 

At first with Psyche. Not tho' Blanche 
had sworn 

That after that dark night among the 
fields 

She needs must wed him for her own 
good name ; 

Not tho' he built upon the babr re- 
stored ; 60 

Not tho' she liked him, yielded she, 
but fear'd 



208 



THE PRINCESS 



To incense the Head once more; till 

on a day 
When Cyril pleaded, Ida came behind 
Seen but of Psyche ; on her foot she 

hung 
A moment, and she heard, at which 

her face 
A little flush'd, and she past on ; but 

each 
Assumed from thence a half-consent 

involved 
In stillness, plighted troth, and were 

at peace. 

Nor only these ; Love in the sacred 

halls 
Held carnival at will, and flying 

struck 70 

With showers of random sweet on 

maid and man. 
Nor did her father cease to press my 

claim, 
Nor did mine own now reconciled ; 

nor yet 
Did those twin brothers, risen again 

and whole ; 
Nor Arac, satiate with his victory. 

But I lay still, and with me oft she 

sat. 
Then came a change ; for sometimes I 

would catch 
Her hand in wild delirium, gripe it 

hard, 
And fling it like a viper off, and shriek, 
' You are not Ida ; ' clasp it once again, 
And call her Ida, tho' I knew her not, 
And call her sweet, as if in irony, 82 
And call her hard and cold, which 

seem'd a truth ; 
And still she fear'd that I should lose 

my mind, 
And often she believed that I should 

die ; 
Till out of long frustration of her 

care, 
And pensive tendance in the all-weary 

noons, 
And watches in the dead, the dark, 

when clocks 
Throbb'd thunder thro' the palace 

floors, or call'd 
On flying Time from all their silver 

tongues — 90 

And out of memories of her kindlier 

days, 



And sidelong glances at my father's 

grief, 
And at the happy lovers heart in 

heart — 
And out of hauntings of my spoken 

love, 
And lonely listenings to my mutter'd 

dream, 
And often feeling of the helpless hands, 
And wordless broodings on the wasted 

cheek — 
From all a closer interest flourish' d up, 
Tenderness touch by touch, and last, 

to these, 
Love, like an Alpine harebell hung 

with tears 100 

By some cold morning glacier ; frail at 

first 
And feeble, all unconscious of itself, 
But such as gather' d color day by day. 

Last I woke sane, but well-nigh close 

to death 
For weakness. It was evening ; silent 

light 
Slept on the painted walls, wherein 

were wrought 
Two grand designs; for on one side 

arose 
The women up in wild revolt, and 

storm'd 
At the Oppian law. Titanic shapes, 

they cramm'd 
The forum, and half-crush'd among 

the rest no 

A dwarf-like Cato cower'd. On the 

other side 
Hortensia spoke against the tax; be- 
hind, 
A train of dames. By axe and eagle 

sat, 
With all their foreheads drawn in 

Roman scowls, 
And half the wolf's-milk curdled in 

their veins, 
The fierce triumvirs ; and before them 

paused 
Hortensia, pleading ; angry was her 

face. 

I saw the forms ; I knew not where 

I was. 
They did but look like hollow shows ; 

nor more 
Sweet Ida. Palm to palm she sat ; 

the dew 120 



PART SEVENTH 



209 



Dwelt in her eyes, and softer all her 

shape 
And rounder seem'd. I moved, I 

sigh'd ; a touch 
Came round my wrist, and tears upon 

my hand. 
Then all for languor and self-pity ran 
Mine down my face, and with what 

life I had, 
And like a flower that cannot all un- 
fold, 
So drench'd it is with tempest, to the 

sun, 
Yet, as it may, turns toward him, I on 

her 
Fixt my faint eyes, and utter' d whis- 

peringly : 

' If you be what I think you, some 
sweet dream, 130 



I would but ask you to fulfil yourself ; 
But if you be that Ida whom I knew, 
I ask you nothing ; only, if a dream, 
Sweet dream, be perfect. I shall die 

to-night. 
Stoop down and seem to kiss me ere I 

die/ 

I could no more, but lay like one in 

trance, 
That hears his burial talk'd of by his 

friends, 
And cannot speak, nor move, nor make 

one sign, 
But lies and dreads his doom. She 

turn'd, she paused, 
She stoop' d ; and out of languor leapt 

a cry, 140 

Leapt fiery Passion from the brinks of 

death, 




1 " I shall die to-niplit. 
Stoop down and seem to kiss me ere I die' 1 ' 



210 



THE PRINXESS 



And I believed that m the living world 
My spirit closed with Ida's at the lips ; 
Till back I fell, and from mine arms 

she rose 
Glowing all over noble shame : and all 
Her falser self slipt from her like a 

robe, 
And left her woman, lovelier in her 

mood 
Than in her mould that other, when 

she came 
From barren deeps to conquer all with 

love, 
And down the streaming crystal dropt ; 

and she 150 

Far-fleeted by the purple island-sides, 
Naked, a double light in air and 

wave, 
To meet her Graces, where they deck' d 

her out 
For worship without end — nor end of 

mine, 
Stateliest, for thee ! but mute she 

glided forth, 
Nor glanced behind her, and I sank 

and slept, 
Fill'd thro' and thro' with love, a 

happy sleep. 

Deep in the night I woke : she, near 

me, held 
A volume of the poets of her land. 
There to herself, all in low tones, she 

read : 160 

' Xow sleeps the crimson petal, now the 

white ; 
Xor waves the cypress in the palace walk; 
Xor winks the 'gold fin in the porphyry 

font. 
The fire-fly wakens ; waken thou with me. 

' Now droops the milk-white peacock like 
a ghost, 
And like" a ghost she glimmers on to me. 

' Xow lies the Earth all Danae to the 
stars, 
And all thy heart lies open unto me. 

1 Xow slides the silent meteor on, and 
leaves 

A shining furrow, as thy thoughts in 

me. I7 o 

1 Xow folds the lily all her sweetness up, 
And slips into the bosom of the lake. 
So fold thyself, my dearest, thou, and slip 
Into mv bosom and be lost in me.' 



I heard her turn the page ; she found 
a small 
Sweet idyl, and once more, as low, she 
read : 

'Come down, maid, from yonder 

mountain height. 
What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd 

sang), 
In height and cold, the splendor of the 

hills? 
But cease to move so near the heavens, and 

cease 180 

To glide a sunbeam by the blasted pine, 
To sit a star upon the sparkling spire ; 
And come, for Love is of the valley, come, 
For Love is of the valley, come thou down 
And find him ; by the happy threshold, he, 
Or hand in hand with Plenty in the maize, 
Or red with spirted purple of the vats, 
Or foxlike in the vine ; nor cares to walk 
With Death and Morning on the Silver 

Horns, 
Xor wilt thou snare him in the white ravine, 
Xor rind him dropt upon the firths of ice, 191 
That huddling slant in furrow-cloven falls 
To roll the torrent out of dusky doors. 
But follow ; let the torrent* dance thee 

down 
To find him in the valley; let the wild 
Lean-headed eagles yelp alone, and leave 
The monstrous ledges there to slope, and 

spill 
Their thousand wreaths of dangling water- 
smoke, 
That like a broken purpose waste in air. 
So waste not thou, but come; for all the 

vales 200 

Await thee ; azure pillars of the hearth 
Arise to thee; the children call, and I 
Thy shepherd pipe, and sweet is every 

sound, 
Sweeter thy voice, but every sound is 

sweef; 
Myriads of rivulets hurrying thro' the lawn, 
The moan of doves in immemorial elms, 
And murmuring of innumerable bees.' 

So she low-toned, while with shut 

eyes I lay 
Listening, then look'd. Pale was the 

perfect face ; 
The bosom with long sighs labor'd ; 

and meek 210 

Seem'd the full lips, and mild the 

luminous eyes, 
And the voice trembled and the hand. 

She said 
Brokenly, that she knew it, she had 

fail'd 
In sweet humility, had fail'd in all ; 
That all her labor was but as a block 



PART SEVENTH 



211 



Left in the quarry ; but she still were 

loth, 
She still were loth to yield herself to 

one 
That wholly scorn'd to help their equal 

rights 
Against the sons of men and barbarous 

laws. 
She pray'd me not to judge their cause 

from her 220 

That wrong'd it, sought far less for 

truth than power 
In knowledge. Something wild with- 
in her breast, 
A greater than all knowledge, beat her 

down. 
And she had nursed me there from 

week to week ; 
Much had she learnt in little time. In 

part 
It was ill counsel had misled the girl 
To vex true hearts ; yet was she but a 

girl — 
' Ah fool, and made myself a queen of 

farce ! 
When comes another such ? never, I 

think, 
Till the sun drop, dead, from the signs.' 

Her voice 
Choked, and her forehead sank upon 

her hands, 231 

And her great heart thro' all the fault- 

ful past 
Went sorrowing in a pause I dared not 

break ; 
Till notice of a change in the dark 

world 
Was lispt about the acacias, and a 

bird, 
That early woke to feed her little ones, 
Sent from a dewy breast a cry for light. 
She moved, and at her feet the volume 

fell. 

'Blame not thyself too much/ I 
said, ' nor blame 

Too much the sons of men and bar- 
barous laws ; 240 

These were the rough ways of the 
world till now. 

Henceforth thou hast a helper, me, 
that know 

The woman's cause is man's ; they 
rise or sink • 

Together, dwarf'd or godlike, bond or 
free. 



For she that out of Lethe scales with 
man 

The shining steps of Nature, shares 
with man 

His nights, his days, moves with him 
to one goal, 

Stays all the fair young planet in her 
hands — 

If she be small, slight-natured, miser- 
able, 

How shall men grow ? but work no 
more alone ! 250 

Our place is much ; as far as in us lies 

We two will serve them both in aid- 
ing her — 

Will clear away the parasitic forms 

That seem to keep her up but drag 
her down — 

Will leave her space to burgeon out 
of all 

Within her — let her make herself her 
own 

To give oj keep, to live and learn and 
be 

All that not harms distinctive woman- 
hood. 

For woman is not undevelopt man, 

But diverse. Could we make her as 
the man, 260 

Sweet Love were slain ; his dearest 
bond is this, 

Not like to like, but like in difference. 

Yet in the long years liker must they 
grow ; 

The man be more of woman, she of 
man; 

He gain in sweetness and in moral 
height, 

Nor lose the wrestling thews that 
throw the world ; 

She mental breadth, nor fail in child- 
ward care, 

Nor lose the childlike in the larger 
mind ; 

Till at the last she set herself to man. 

Like perfect music unto noble words ; 

And so these twain, upon the skirts Of 
Time, 271 

Sit side by side, full-summ'd in all 
their powers, 

Dispensing harvest, sowing the to-be, 

Self-reverent each and reverencing 
each, 

Distinct in individualities, 

But like each other even as those who 
love. 



212 



THE PRINCESS 



Then comes the statelier Eden back to 

men; 
Then reign the world's great bridals, 

chaste and calm ; 
Then springs the crowning race of 

humankind. 279 

May these things be ! ' 

Sighing she spoke : ' I fear 
They will not/ 

' Dear, but let us type them now 
In our own lives, and this proud 

watchword rest 
Of equal ; seeing either sex alone 
Is half itself, and in true marriage lies 
Nor equal, nor unequal. Each fulfils 
Defect in each, and always thought 

in thought, 
Purpose in purpose, will in will, they 

grow, 
The siugle pure and perfect animal, 
The two-cell'd heart beating, with 

one full stroke, 
Life.' 

And again sighing she spoke : 'A 

dream 290 

That once was mine ! what woman 

taught you this ? ' 

'Alone,' I said, 'from earlier than 

I know, 
Immersed in rich foreshadowings of 

the world, 
I loved the woman. He, that doth 

not, lives 
A drowning life, besotted in sweet self, 
Or pines in sad experience worse than 

death, 
Or keeps his wing'd affections dipt 

with crime. 
Yet was there one thro' whom I loved 

her, one 
Not learned, save in gracious house- 
hold ways, 
Not perfect, nay, but full of tender 

wants, 300 

No angel, but a dearer being, all dipt 
In angel instincts, breathing Paradise, 
Interpreter between the gods and men, 
Who look'd all native to her place, 

and yet 
On tiptoe seem'd to touch upon a 

sphere 
Too gross to tread, and all male minds 

perforce 
Sway'd to her from their orbits as 

they moved, 



And girdled her with music. Happy 
he 

With such a mother ! faith in woman- 
kind 

Beats with his blood, and trust in all 
things high 310 

Comes easy to him, and tho' he trip 
and fall 

He shall not blind his soul with clay. ' 

'But I,' 

Said Ida, tremulously, ' so all unlike — 

It seems you love to cheat yourself 
with words ; 

This mother is your model. I have 
heard 

Of your strange doubts ; they well 
might be ; I seem 

A mockery to my own self. Never, 
Prince ! 

You cannot love me.' 

'Nay, but thee,' I said, 

'From yearlong poring on thy pic- 
tured eyes, 

Ere seen I loved, and loved thee seen, 
and saw 320 

Thee woman thro' the crust of iron 
moods 

That mask'd thee from men's rever- 
ence up, and forced 

Sweet love on pranks of saucy boy- 
hood ; now, 

Given back to life, to life indeed, thro' 
thee, 

Indeed I love. The new day comes, 
the light 

Dearer for night, as dearer thou for 
faults 

Lived over. Lift thine eyes ; my 
doubts are dead, 

My haunting sense of hollow shows ; 
the change, 

This truthful change in thee has kill'd 
it. Dear, 

Look up, and let thy nature strike on 
mine, 330 

Like yonder morning on the blind 
half-world. 

Approach and fear not ; breathe upon 
my brows ; 

In that fine air I tremble, all the past 

Melts mist-like into this bright hour, 
and this 

Is morn to more, and all the rich to- 
come 

Reels, as the golden Autumn wood- 
land reels 



PART SEVENTH 



213 




' " A dream 
That once was mine ! what woman taught you this ? 



Athwart the smoke of burning weeds. 

Forgive me, 
I waste my heart in signs ; let be. 

My bride, 
My wife, my life ! O, we will walk 

this world, 
Yoked in all exercise of noble end, 340 
And so thro' those dark gates across 

the wild 
That no man knows. Indeed I love 

thee ; come, 
Yield thyself up ; my hopes and thine 

are one. 
Accomplish thou my manhood and 

thyself ; 
Lay thy sweet hands in mine and 

trust to me.' 



CONCLUSION 

So closed our tale, of which I give 
you all 



The random scheme as wildly as it 

rose. 
The words are mostly mine ; for when 

we ceased 
There came a minute's pause, and 

Walter said, 
' I wish she had not yielded ! ' then to 

me, 
'What if you drest it up poetical- 

iy!' 

So pray'd the men, the women ; I 

gave assent. 
Yet how to bind the scatter 'd scheme 

of seven 
Together in one sheaf ? What style 

could suit ? 
The men required that I should give 

throughout 10 

The sort of mock-heroic gigantesque, 
With which we bantered little Lilia 

first; 
The women — and perhaps they felt 

their power, 



214 



THE PRINCESS 



For something in the ballads which 
they sang, 

Or in their silent influence as they 
sat, 

Had ever seem'd to wrestle with bur- 
lesque, 

And drove us, last, to quite a solemn 
close — 

They hated banter, wish'd for some- 
thing real, 

A gallant fight, a noble princess — why 

Not make her true-heroic — true-sub- 
lime ? 20 

Or all, they said, as earnest as the 
close ? 

Which yet with such a framework 
scarce could be. 

Then rose a little feud betwixt the 
two, 

Betwixt the mockers and the realists ; 

And I, betwixt them both, to please 
them both, 

And yet to give the story as it rose, 

I moved as in a strange diagonal, 

And maybe neither pleased myself nor 
them. 

But Lilia pleased me, for she took no 

part 
In our dispute ; the sequel of the 

tale 30 

Had touch'd her, and she sat, she 

pluck' d the grass, 
She flung it from her, thinking ; last, 

she fixt 
A showery glance upon her aunt, and 

said, 
'You — tell us what we are' — who 

might have told, 
For she was cramm'd with theories 

out of books, 
But that there rose a shout. The gates 

were closed 
At sunset, and the crowd were swarm- 
ing now, 
To take their leave, about the garden 

rails. 

So I and some Went out to these ; 

we climb' d 
The slope to Vivian-place, and turning 

saw 40 

The happy valleys, half in light, and 

half 
Far-shadowing from the west, a land 

of peace ; 



Gray halls alone among their massive 
groves ; 

Trim hamlets ; here and there a rustic 
tower 

Half -lost in belts of hop and breadths 
of wheat ; 

The shimmering glimpses of a stream ; 
the seas ; 

A red sail, or a white ; and far be- 
yond, 

Imagined more than seen, the skirts 
of France. 

1 Look there, a garden ! ' said my 

college friend, 
The Tory member's elder son, 'and 

there ! 50 

God bless the narrow sea which keeps 

her off, 
And keeps our Britain, whole within 

herself, 
A nation yet, the rulers and the ruled — 
Some sense of duty, something of a 

faith, 
Some reverence for the laws ourselves 

have made, 
Some patient force to change them 

when we will, 
Some civic manhood firm against the 

crowd — 
But yonder, whiff ! there comes a sud- 
den heat, 
The gravest citizen seems to lose his 

head, 
The king is scared, the soldier will not 

fight, 60 

The little boys begin to shoot and 

stab, 
A kingdom topples over with a shriek 
Like an old woman, and down rolls 

the world 
In mock heroics stranger than our 

own; 
Revolts, republics, revolutions, most 
No graver than a schoolboys' barring 

out ; 
Too comic for the solemn things they 

are, 
Too solemn for the comic touches in 

them, 
Like our wild Princess with as wise a 

dream 
As some of theirs — God bless the nar- 
row seas ! 70 
I wish they were a whole Atlantic 

broad.' 






CONCLUSION 



2I 5 



' Have patience, ' I replied, ' our- 
selves are full 
Of social wrong ; and maybe wildest 

dreams 
Are but the needful preludes of the 

truth. 
For me, the genial day, the happy 

crowd, 
The sport half-science, fill me with a 

faith, 
This fine old world of ours is but a 

child 
Yet in the go-cart. Patience ! Give 

it time 
To learn its limbs ; there is a hand that 

guides.' 

In such discourse we gain'd the 
garden rails, 80 



And there we saw Sir Walter where 

he stood, 
Before a tower of crimson holly-oaks, 
Among six boys, head under head, and 

look'd 
No little lily-handed baronet he, 
A great broad-shoulder' d genial Eng- 
lishman, 
A lord of fat prize-oxen and of sheep, 
A raiser of huge melons and of 

pine, 
A patron of some thirty charities, 
A pamphleteer on guano and on grain, 
A quarter- sessions chairman, abler 

none ; 90 

Fair-hair' d and redder than a windy 

morn ; 
Now shaking hands with him, now 

him, of those 




1 You — tell us what we are " — who might have told ' 



2l6 



THE PRINCESS 



That stood the nearest — now address'd 

to speech — 
Who spoke few words and pithy, such 

as closed 
Welcome, farewell, and welcome for 

the year 
To follow. A shout rose again, and 

made 
The long line of the approaching rook- 
ery swerve 
From the elms, and shook the branches 

of the deer 
From slope to slope thro' distant ferns, 

and rang 
Beyond the bourn of sunset — O, a 

Shout ioo 

More joyful than the city-roar that 

hails 
Premier or king ! Why should not 

these great sirs 
Give up their parks some dozen times 

a year 
To let the people breathe ? So thrice 

they cried, 
I likewise, and in groups they stream'd 

away. 



But we went back to the Abbey, 

and sat on, 
So much the gathering darkness 

charm'd ; we sat 
But spoke not, rapt in^nameless rev- 
erie, 
Perchance upon the future man. The 

walls 
Blacken'd about us, bats wheel'd, and 

owls whoop'd, no 

And gradually the powers of the 

night, 
That range above the region of the 

wind, 
Deepening the courts of twilight broke 

them up 
Thro' all the silent spaces of the 

worlds, 
Beyond all thought into the heaven 

of heavens. 

Last little Lilia, rising quietly, 
Disrobed the glimmering statue of Sir 

Ralph 
From those rich silks, and home well- 
pleased we went. 




Arthur Henry Hallam 

IN MEMORIAM A. H. H. 

OBIIT MDCCCXXXIII 



Strong Son of God, immortal Love, 
Whom we, that have not seen thy 

face, 
By faith, and faith alone, embrace, 

Believing where we cannot prove ; 

Thine are these orbs of light and shade ; 

Thou madest Life in man and brute ; 

Thoumadest Death ; and lo, thy foot 
Is on the skull which thou hast made. 



Thou wilt not leave us in the dust : 
Thou madest man, he knows not 

why, 
He thinks he was not made to die ; 

And thou hast made him : thou art j ust . 

Thou seemest human and divine. 
The highest, holiest manhood, thou. 
Our wills are ours, we know not how ; 

Our wills are ours, to make them thine. 



2l8 



IN MEMORIAM 



Our little systems have their day ; 
They have their day and cease to 

be; 
They are but broken lights of thee, 
And thou, O Lord, art more than 
they. 

We have but faith : we cannot know, 
For knowledge is of things we see ; 
And yet we trust it comes from 
thee, 

A beam in darkness : let it grow. 

Let knowledge grow from more to 
more, 

But more of reverence in us dwell ; 

That mind and soul, according well, 
May make one music as before, 

But vaster. We are fools and slight ; 
We mock thee when we do not fear : 
But help thy foolish ones to bear ; 

Help thy vain worlds to bear thy light. 

Forgive .what seem'd my sin in me, 
What seem'd my worth since I 

began ; 
For merit lives from man to man, 

And not from man, O Lord, to thee. 

Forgive my grief for one removed, 
Thy creature, whom I found so fair. 
I trust he lives in thee, and there 

I find him worthier to be loved. 

Forgive these wild and wandering 
cries, 
Confusions of a wasted youth ; 
Forgive them where they fail in 
truth, 
And in thy wisdom make me wise. 

1849. 



I held it truth, with him who sings 
To one clear harp in divers tones, 
That men may rise on stepping- 
stones 

Of their dead selves to higher things. 

But who shall so forecast the years 
And find in loss a gain to match ? 
Or reach a hand thro' time to catch 

The far-off interest of tears ? 



Let Love clasp Grief lest both be 

drown'd, 

Let darkness keep her raven gloss. 

Ah, sweeter to be drunk with loss, 

To dance with Death, to beat the 

ground, 

Than that the victor Hours should 
scorn 
The long result of love, and boast, 
' Behold the man that loved and lost, 

But all he was is overworn.' 

ii 

Old yew, which graspest at the stones 
That name the underlying dead, 
Thy fibres net the dreamless head, 

Thy roots are wrapt about the bones. 

The seasons bring the flower again, 
And bring the firstling to the flock ; 
And in the dusk of thee the clock 

Beats out the little lives of men. 

O, not for thee the glow, the bloom, 
Who changest not in any gale, 
Nor branding summer suns avail 

To touch thy thousand years of gloom ; 

And gazing on thee, sullen tree, 
Sick for thy stubborn hardihood, 
I seem to fail from out my blood 

And grow incorporate into thee. 

in 

O Sorrow, cruel fellowship, 
O Priestess in the vaults of Death, 
O sweet and bitter in a breath, 

What whispers from thy lying lip ? 

'The stars,' she whispers, 'blindly 
run ; 

A web is woven across the sky ; 

From out waste places comes a cry, 
And murmurs from the dying sun ; 

'And all the phantom, Nature, 
stands — 
With all the music in her tone, 
A hollow echo of my own, — 

A hollow form with empty hands/ 

And shall I take a thing so blind, 
Embrace her as my natural good ; 
Or crush her, like a vice of blood, 

Upon the threshold of the mind ? 



IN MEMORIAM 



219 



To Sleep I give my powers away ; 

My will is bondsman to the dark ; 

I sit within a helmless bark, 
And with my heart I muse and say : 

O heart, how fares it with thee now, 
That thou shouldst fail from thy 

desire, 
Who scarcely darest to inquire, 

' What is it makes me beat so low ? ' 

Something it is which thou hast lost, 
Some pleasure from thine early 

years. 
Break, thou deep vase of chilling 
tears, 
That grief hath shaken into frost ! 

Such clouds of nameless trouble cross 
All night below the darken' d eyes ; 
With morning wakes the will, and 
cries, 

' Thou shalt not be the fool of loss.' 



I sometimes hold it half a sin 
To put in words the grief I feel ; 
For words, like Nature, half % reveal 

And half conceal the Soul within. 

But, for the unquiet heart and brain, 
A use in measured language lies ; 
The sad mechanic exercise, 

Like dull narcotics, numbing pain. 

In words, like weeds, 1 11 wrap me o'er, 
Like coarsest clothes against the 

cold ; 
But that large grief which these en- 
fold 
Is given in outline and no more. 

VI 

One writes, that ' other friends remain,' 
That ' loss is common to the race ' — 
And common is the commonplace, 

And vacant chaff well meant for grain. 

That loss is common would not make 
My own less bitter, rather more. 
Too common ! Never morning wore 

To evening, but some heart did break. 

O father, wheresoe'er thou be, 
Who pledgest now thy gallant son, 



A shot, ere half thy draught be done, 
Hath still'd the life that beat from thee. 

O mother, praying God will save 
Thy sailor, — while thy head is 

bow'd, 
His heavy-shotted hammock-shroud 

Drops in his vast and wandering grave. 

Ye know no more than I who wrought 
At that last hour to please him well ; 
Who mused on all I had to tell, 

And something written, something 
thought ; 

Expecting still his advent home ; 
And ever met him on his way 
With wishes, thinking, ' here to-day,' 

Or 'here to-morrow will he come.' 

O, somewhere, meek, unconscious 
dove, 

That sittest ranging golden hair ; 

And glad to find thyself so fair, 
Poor child, that waitest for thy love ! 

For now her father's chimney glows 

In expectation of a guest ; 

And thinking ' this will please him 
best,' 
She takes a riband or a rose ; 

For he will see them on to-night ; 

And with the thought her color 
burns ; 

And, having left the glass, she turns 
Once more to set a ringlet right ; 

And, even when she turn'd, the curse 
Had fallen, and her future lord 
Was drown'd in passing thro' the 
ford, 

Or kill'd in falling from his horse. 

O, what to her shall be the end ? 

And what to me remains of good ? 

To her perpetual maidenhood, 
And unto me no second friend. 



Dark house, by which once more I 
stand 
Herein the long unlovely street. 
Doors, when 1 my heart was used to 
beat 
So quickly, waiting for a hand. 



220 



IN MEMORIAM 



A hand that can be clasp' d no more — 
Behold me, for I cannot sleep, 
And like a guilty thing I creep 

At earliest morning to the door. 

He is not here ; but far away 
The noise of life begins again, 
And ghastly thro' the drizzling 
rain 
On the bald street breaks the blank 
day. 



A happy lover who has come 

To look on her that loves him well, 
Who 'lights and rings the gateway 
bell, 
And learns her gone and far from 
home; 

He saddens, all the magic light 
Dies off at once from bower and 

hall, 
And all the place is dark, and all 

The chambers emptied of delight : 

So find I every pleasant spot 
In which we two were wont to 

meet, 
The field, the chamber, and the 
street, 
For all is dark where thou art not. 

Yet as that other, wandering there 
In those deserted walks, may find 
A flower beat with rain and wind, 

Which once she foster'd up with care ; 

So seems it in my deep regret, 

my forsaken heart, with thee 
And this poor flower of poesy 

Which, little cared for, fades not yet. 

But since it pleased a vanish'd eye, 

1 go to plant it on his tomb, 
That if it can it there may bloom, 

Or, dying, there at least may die. 

IX 

Fair ship, that from the Italian shore 
Sailest the placid ocean-plains 
With my lost Arthur's loved re- 
mains, 
Spread thy full wings, and waft him 
o'er. 



So draw him home to those that 
mourn 
In vain ; a favorable speed 
Ruffle thy mirror'd mast, and lead 

Thro' prosperous floods his holy urn. 

All night no ruder air perplex 

Thy sliding keel, till Phosphor, 

bright 
As our pure love, thro' early light 

Shall glimmer on the dewy decks, 

Sphere all your lights around, above ; 
Sleep, gentle heavens, before the 

prow ; 
Sleep, gentle winds, as he sleeps 
now, 
My friend, the brother of my love ; 

My Arthur, whom I shall not see 
Till all my widow'd race be run ; 
Dear as the mother to the son, 

More than my brothers are to me. 



I hear the noise about thy keel ; 

I hear the bell struck in the night ; 

I see the cabin-window bright ; 
I see the sailor at the wheel. 

Thou bring'st the sailor to his wife, 
And travell'd men from foreign 

lands ; 
And letters unto trembling hands ; 
And, thy dark freight, a vanish'd 
life. 

So bring him ; we have idle dreams ; 
This look of quiet flatters thus 
Our home-bred fancies. O, to us, 

The fools of habit, sweeter seems 

To rest beneath the clover sod, 

That takes the sunshine and the 

rains, 
Or where the kneeling hamlet drains 

The chalice of the grapes of God ; 

Than if with thee the roaring wells 
Should gulf him fathom-deep in 

brine, 
And hands so often clasp' d in 
mine, 
Should toss with tangle and with 
shells. 



IN MEMORIAM 



;i;*i-\' : ' ; 





' Fair ship, that from the Italian shore 
Sailest the placid ocean-plains ' 



Calm is the morn without a sound, 
Calm as to suit a calmer grief, 
And only thro' the faded leaf 

The chestnut pattering to the ground ; 

Calm and deep peace on this high 
wold, 
And on these dews that drench the 

furze, 
And all the silvery gossamers 
That twinkle into green and gold ; 

Calm and still light on yon great 
plain 
That sweeps with all its autumn 

bowers, 
And crowded farms and lessening 
towers, 
To mingle with the bounding main ; 

Calm and deep peace in this wide air, 
These leaves that redden to the fail, 



And in my heart, if calm at all, 
If any calm, a calm despair ; 

Calm on the seas, and silver sleep, 
And waves that sway themselves in 

rest, 
And dead calm in that noble breast 
Which heaves but with the heaving 
deep. 



Lo, as a dove when up she springs 
To bear thro' heaven a tale of 

woe, 
Some dolorous message knit be- 
low 
The wild pulsation of her win 

Like her I go, I cannot stay ; 
I leave this mortal ark behind, 
A weight of nerves without a 
mind, 

And leave the cliffs, and haste away 



IN MEMORIAM 



O'er ocean-mirrors rounded large, 
And reach the glow of southern 

skies, 
And see the sails at distance rise, 

And linger weeping on the marge, 

And saying, 'Comes he thus, my 
friend ? 

Is this the end of all my care ? 

And circle moaning in the air, 
' Is this the end ? Is this the end ? ' 

And forward dart again, and play 
About the prow, and back return 
To where the body sits, and learn 

That I have been an hour away. 

XIII 

Tears of the widower, when he sees 
A late -lost form that sleep reveals, 
And moves his doubtful arms, and 
feels 

Her place is empty, fall like these ; 

Which weep a loss for ever new, 
A void where heart on heart re- 
posed ; 
And, where warm hands have prest 
and closed, 
Silence, till I be silent too ; 

Which weep the comrade of my 
choice, 
An awful thought, a life removed, 
The human-hearted man I loved, 

A Spirit, not a breathing voice. 

Come, Time, and teach me, many 
years, 
I do not suffer in a dream ; 
For now so strange do these things 
seem, 
Mine eyes have leisure for their 
tears, 

My fancies time to rise on wing, 
And glance about the approaching 

sails, 
As tho' they brought but merchants' 
bales, 
And not the burthen that they bring. 

XIV 

If one should bring me this report, 
That thou hadst touch'd the land to- 
day, 



And I went down unto the quay, 
And found thee lying in the port ; 

And standing, muffled round with woe, 
Should see thy passengers in rank 
Come stepping lightly down the 
plank, 

And beckoning unto those they know ; 

And if along with these should come 
The man I held as half -divine, 
Should strike a sudden hand in 
mine, 

And ask a thousand things of home ; 

And I should tell him all my pain, 
And how my life had droop'd of 

late, 
And he should sorrow o'er my state 

And marvel what possess' d my brain ; 

And I perceived no touch of change, 
No hint of death in all his frame, 
But found him all in all the same, 

I should not feel it to be strange. 

xv 

To-night the winds begin to rise 
And roar from yonder dropping day ; 
The last red leaf is whirl'd away, 

The rooks are blown about the skies ; 

The forest crack'd, the waters curl'd, 
The cattle huddled on the lea; 
And wildly dash'd on tower and tree 

The sunbeam strikes akmg the world: 

And but for fancies, which aver 
That all thy motions gently pass 
Athwart a plane of molten glass, 

I scarce could brook the strain and stir 

That makes the barren branches loud ; 
And but for fear it is not so, 
The wild unrest that lives in woe 

Would dote and pore on yonder cloud 

That rises upward always higher, 
And onward drags a laboring breast, 
And topples round the dreary west, 

A looming bastion fringed with fire. 

XVI 

What words are these have fallen 
from me ? 
Can calm despair and wild unrest 



IN MEMORIAM 



223 






Be tenants of a single breast, 
Or Sorrow such a changeling be ? 

Or doth she only seem to take 
The touch of change in calm or 

storm, 
But knows no more of transient form 

In her deep self, than some dead lake 

That holds the shadow of a lark 
Hung in the shadow of a heaven ? 
Or has the shock, so harshly given, 

Confused me like the unhappy bark 

That strikes by night a craggy shelf, 
And staggers blindly ere she sink ? 
And stunn'd me from my power to 
think 

And all my knowledge of myself ; 

And made me that delirious man 
Whose fancy fuses old and new, 
And flashes into false and true, 

And mingles all without a plan ? 

XVII 

Thou comest, much wept for ; such a 
breeze 
Compell'd thy canvas, and my prayer 
Was as the whisper of an air 

To breathe thee over lonely seas. 

For I in spirit saw thee move 

Thro' circles of the bounding sky, 
Week after week ; the days go by ; 

Come quick, thou bringest all I love. 

Henceforth, wherever thou mayst 
roam, 
My blessing, like a line of light, 
Is on the waters day and night, 

And like a beacon guards thee home. 

So may whatever tempest mars 
Mid-ocean spare thee, sacred bark, 
And balmy drops in summer dark 

Slide from the bosom of the stars ; 

So kind an office hath been done, 
Such precious relics brought by thee, 
The dust of him I shall not see 

Till all my widow' d race be run. 

XVIII 

'T is well ; 't is something ; we may 
stand 



Where he in English earth is laid, 
And from his ashes may be made 
The violet of his native land. 

'T is little ; but it looks in truth 
As if the quiet bones were blest 
Among familiar names to rest 

And in the places of his youth. 

Come then, pure hands, and bear the 
head 
That sleeps or wears the mask of 

sleep, 
And come, whatever loves to weep, 
And hear the ritual of the dead. 

Ah yet, even yet, if this might be, 
I, falling on his faithful heart, 
Would breathing thro' his lips im- 
part 

The life that almost dies in me ; 

That dies not, but endures with pain, 
And slowly forms the firmer mind, 
Treasuring the look it cannot find, 

The words that are not heard again. 



The Danube to the Severn gave 
The darken'd heart that beat no 

more ; 
They laid him by the pleasant shore, 

And in the hearing of the wave. 

There twice a day the Severn fills ; 
The salt sea-water passes by, 
And hushes half the babbling Wye, 

And makes a silence in the hills. 

The Wye is hush'd nor moved along, 
And hush'd my deepest grief of all, 
When fill'd with tears that cannot 
fall, 

I brim with sorrow drowning song. 

The tide flows down, the wave again 
Is vocal in its wooded walls ; 
My deeper anguish also falls, 

And I can speak a little then. 

xx 

The lesser griefs that may be said. 

That breathe a thousand tender 
vows, 

Are but as servants in a house 
Where lies the master newly dead ; 



224 



IN MEMORIAM 



I do but sing because I must, 
And pipe but as the linnets sing ; 

And one is glad ; her note is gay, 
Fox now her little ones have ranged ; 
And one is sad ; her note is changed, 

Because her brood is stolen away. 



The path by which we twain did go, 
Which led by tracts that pleased us 

well, 
Thro' four sweet years arose and fell, 
From flower to flower, from snow to 
snow ; 

And we with singing cheer' d the way, 
And, crown' d with all the season 

lent, 
From April on to April went, 

And glad at heart from May to May. 

But where the path we walk'd began 
To slant the fifth autumnal slope, 
As we descended following Hope, 

There sat the Shadow feared of man ; 

Who broke our fair companionship, 
And spread his mantle dark and 

cold, 
And wrapt thee formless in the fold, 

And dull'd the murmur on thy lip, 

And bore thee where I could not see 
Nor follow, tho' I walk in haste, 
And think that somewhere in the 
waste 

The Shadow sits and waits for me. 

XXIII 

Now, sometimes in my sorrow shut, 
Or breaking into song by fits, 
Alone, alone, to where he sits, 

The Shadow cloak'd from head to foot, 

Who keeps the keys of all the creeds, 
I wander, often 'falling lame, 
And looking back to whence I came, 

Or on to where the pathway leads ; 

And crying, How changed from where 
it ran 
Thro' lands where not a leaf was 

dumb, 
But all the lavish hills would hum 
The murmur of a happy Pan ; 



Who speak their feeling as it is, 
And weep the fulness from the mind. 
1 It will be hard,' they say, ' to find 

Another service such as this.' 

My lighter moods are like to these, 
That out of words a comfort win ; 
But there are other griefs within, 

And tears that at their fountain freeze ; 

For by the hearth the children sit 
Cold in that atmosphere of death, 
And scarce endure to draw the 
breath, 

Or like to noiseless phantoms flit ; 

But open converse is there none, 
So much the vital spirits sink 
To see the vacant chair, and think, 

' How good ! how kind ! and he is 
gone.' 



I sing to him that rests below, 
And, since the grasses round me 

wave, 
I take the grasses of the grave, 
And make them pipes whereon to 
blow. 

The traveller hears me now and then, 
And sometimes harshly will he 

speak : 
1 This fellow would make weakness 
weak, 
And melt the waxen hearts of men. ' 

Another answers : ' Let him be, 
He loves to make parade of pain, 
That with his piping he may gain 

The praise that comes to constancy/ 

A third is wroth : ' Is this an hour 
For private sorrow's barren song, 
When more and more the people 
throng 

The chairs and thrones of civil power ? 

1 A time to sicken and to swoon, 
When Science reaches forth her arms 
To feel from world to world, and 
charms 

Her secret from the latest moon ? ' 

Behold, ye speak an idle thing ; 
Ye never knew the sacred dust. 



IN MEMORIAM 



225 



When each by turns was guide to each, 

And Fancy light from Fancy caught, 

And Thought leapt out to wed with 

Thought 

Ere Thought could wed itself with 

Speech ; 

And all we met was fair and good, 
And all was good that Time could 

bring, 
And all the secret of the Spring 

Moved in the chambers of the blood ; 

And many an old philosophy 

On Argive heights divinely sang, 
And round us all the thicket rang 

To many a flute of Arcady. 

XXIV 

And was the day of my delight 
As pure and perfect as I say ? 
The very source and fount of day 

Is dash'd with wandering isles of 
night. 

If all was good and fair we met. 
This earth had been the Paradise 
It never look'd to human eyes 

Since our first sun arose and set. 



And is it that the haze of grief 
Makes former gladness loom so 

great ? 
The lowness of the present state, 

That sets the past in this relief ? 

Or that the past will always win 
A glory from its being far, 
And orb into the perfect star 

We saw not when we moved therein ? 



xxv 
this was 



Life, — the 



I know that 
track 
Whereon with equal feet we fared ; 
And then, as now, the day pre 
pared 
The daily burden for the back. 

But this it was that made me move 
As light as carrier-birds in air ; 
I loved the weight I had to bear, 

Because it needed help of Love ; 

Nor could I weary, heart or limb, 
When mighty Love would cleave in 

twain 
The lading of a single pain, 

And part it, giving half to him. 




4 They laid him by the pleasant shore, 
And in the hearing of the wave ' 



226 



IN MEMORIAM 



XXVI 

Still onward winds the dreary way ; 
I with it, for I long to prove 
No lapse of moons can canker Love, 

Whatever fickle tongues may say. 

And if that eye which watches guilt 
And goodness, and hath power to 

see 
Within the green the moulder'd tree, 

And towers fallen as soon as built — 

O, if indeed that eye foresee 
Or see — in Him is no before — 
In more of life true life no more 

And Love the indifference to be, 

Then might I find, ere yet the morn 
Breaks hither over Indian seas, 
That Shadow waiting with the keys, 

To shroud me from my proper scorn. 

XXVII 

I envy not in any moods 
The captive void of noble rage, 
The linnet born within the cage, 

That never knew the summer woods ; 

I envy not the beast that takes 
His license in the field of time, 
Unfetter'd by the sense of crime, 

To whom a conscience never wakes ; 

Nor, what may count itself as blest, 
The heart that never plighted troth 
But stagnates in the weeds of sloth ; 

Nor any want-begotten rest. 

I hold it true, whate'er befall ; 

I feel it, when I sorrow most ; 

'Tis better to have loved and lost 
Than never to have loved at all. 

XXVIII 

The time draws near the birth of 
Christ. 
The moon is hid, the night is still ; 
The Christmas bells from hill to 
hill 
Answer each other in the mist. 

Four voices of four hamlets round, 
From far and near, on mead and 

moor, 
Swell out and fail, as if a door 

Were shut between me and the sound ; 



Each voice four changes on the wind, 
That now dilate, and now decrease, 
Peace and goodwill, goodwill and 
peace, 

Peace and goodwill, to all mankind. 

This year I slept and woke with pain, 
I almost wish'd no more to wake, 
And that my hold on life would 
break 

Before I heard those bells again ; 

But they my troubled spirit rule, 
For they controll'd me when a boy ; 
They bring me sorrow touch'd with 
joy, 

The merry, merry bells of Yule. 



With such compelling cause to grieve 
As daily vexes household peace, 
And chains regret to his decease, 

How dare we keep our Christmas-eve, 

Which brings no more a welcome guest 
To enrich the threshold of the night 
With shower' d largess of delight 

In dance and song and game and jest ? 

Yet go, and while the holly boughs 
Entwine the cold baptismal font, 
Make one wreath more for Use and 
Wont, 

That guard the portals of the house. ; 

Old sisters of a day gone by, 

Gray nurses, loving nothing new — 
Why should they miss their yearly 
due 

Before their time ? They too will die. 



With trembling fingers did we weave 
The holly round the Christmas 

hearth ; 
A rainy cloud possess' d the earth, 

And sadly fell our Christmas- eve. 

At our old pastimes in the hall 
We gamboll'd, making vain pre- 
tence 
Of gladness, with an awful sense 

Of one mute Shadow watching all. 

We paused : the winds were in the 
beech ; 




IN MEMORIAM 



We heard them, sweep the winter 

land ; 
And in a circle hand -in-hand 
Sat silent, looking each at each. 

Then echo-like our voices rang ; 
We sung, tho' every eye was dim, 
A merry song we sang with him 

Last year ; impetuously we sang. 

We ceased ; a gentler feeling crept 
Upon us : surely rest is meet. 
1 They rest,' we said, ' their sleep is 
sweet,' 

And silence follow'd, and we wept. 

Our voices took a higher range ; 
Once more we sang : ' They do not 

die 
Nor lose their mortal sympathy, 
Nor change to us, although they 
change ; 

' Rapt from the fickle and the frail 
With gather'd power, yet the same, 
Pierces the keen seraphic flame 

From orb to orb, from veil to veil.' 

Rise, happy morn, rise, holy morn, 
Draw forth the cheerful day from 

night : 
O Father, touch the east, and 
light 
The light that shone when Hope was 
born. 

XXXI 

When Lazarus left his charnel-cave, 
And home to Mary's house return'd, 
Was this demanded — if he yearn'd 

To hear her weeping by his grave ? 

1 Where wert thou, brother, those four 
days ? ' 
There lives no record of reply, 
Which telling what it is to die 

Had surely added praise to praise. 

From every house the neighbors met, 
The streets were fill'd with joyful 

sound, 
A solemn gladness even crown' d 

The purple brows of Olivet. 

Behold a man raised up by Christ ! 
The rest remaineth unreveal'd ; 



He told it not, or something seal'd 
The lips of that Evangelist. 

xxxn 

Her eyes are homes of silent prayer, 
Nor other thought her mind admits 
But, he was dead, and there he sits, 

And he that brought him back is there. 

Then one deep love doth supersede 
All other, when her ardent gaze 
Roves from the living brother's face, 

And rests upon the Life indeed. 

All subtle thought, all curious fears, 
Borne down by gladness so complete, 
She bows, she bathes the Saviour's 
feet 

With costly spikenard and with tears. 

Thrice blest whose lives are faithful 
prayers, 
Whose loves in higher love endure ; 
What souls possess themselves so 
pure, 
Or is there blessedness like theirs ? 



O thou that after toil and storm 
Mayst seem to have reach'd a purer 

air, 
Whose faith has centre everywhere, 

Nor cares to fix itself to form, 

Leave thou thy sister when she prays 
Her early heaven, her happy views ; 
Nor thou with shadow'd hint con- 
fuse 

A life that leads melodious days. 

Her faith thro' form is pure as thine. 
Her hands are quicker unto good- 
O, sacred be the flesh and blood 

To which she links a truth divine ! 

See thou, that countest reason ripe 
In holding by the law within, 
Thou fail not in a world of sin. 

And even for want of such a type. 

xxxiv 

My own dim life should teach me 

this, 

That life shall live for evermore. 

Else earth is darkness at tin 1 core. 

And dust and ashes all that is ; 



228 



IN MEMORIAM 



This round of green, this orb of flame, 
Fantastic beauty ; such as lurks 
In some wild poet, when he works 

Without a conscience or an aim. 

What then were God to such as I ? 

' T were hardly worth my while to 
choose 

Of things all mortal, or to use 
A little patience ere I die ; 

'T were best at once to sink to peace, 
Like birds the charming serpent 

draws, 
To drop head-foremost in the jaws 

Of vacant darkness and to cease. 

xxxv 

Yet if some voice that man could trust 
Should murmur from the narrow 

house, 
' The cheeks drop in, the body bows ; 

Man dies, nor is there hope in dust ; ' 

Might I not say ? ' Yet even here, 
But for one hour, O Love, I strive 
To keep so sweet a thing alive/ 

But I should turn mine ears and hear 

The moanings of the homeless sea, 
The sound of streams that swift or 

slow 
Draw down Ionian hills, and sow 

The dust of continents to be ; 

And Love would answer with a sigh, 
' The sound of that forgetful shore 
Will change my sweetness more and 
more-, 

Half -dead to know that I shall die.' 

O me, what profits it to put 
An idle case ? If Death were seen 
At first as Death, Love had not 
been, 

Or been in narrowest working shut, 

Mere fellowship of sluggish moods, 
Or in his coarsest Satyr-shape 
Had bruised the herb and crush' d 
the grape, 

And bask'd and batten'd in the woods. 



Tho' truths in manhood darkly join, 
Deep-seated in our mystic frame, 



We yield all blessing to the name 
Of Him that made them current 



For Wisdom dealt with mortal powers, 
Where truth in closest words shall 

fail, 
When truth embodied in a tale 

Shall enter in at lowly doors. 

And so the Word, had breath, and 
wrought 
With human hands the creed of 

creeds 
In loveliness of perfect deeds, 
More strong than all poetic thought ; 

Which he may read that binds the 
sheaf, 
Or builds the house, or digs the 

grave, 
And those wild eyes that watch the 
wave 
In roarings round the coral reef. 



Urania speaks with darken'd brow : 
4 Thou pratest here where thou art 

least ; 
This faith has many a purer priest, 

And many an abler voice than thou. 

1 Go down beside thy native rill, 
On thy Parnassus set thy feet, 
And hear thy laurel whisper sweet 

About the ledges of the hill/ 

And my Melpomene replies, 
A touch of shame upon her cheek : 
' I am not worthy even to speak 

Of thy prevailing mysteries ; 

1 For I am but an earthly Muse, 
And owning but a little art 
To lull with song an aching heart, 

And render human love his dues ; 

' But brooding on the dear one dead, 
And all he said of things divine, — 
And dear to me as sacred wine 

To dying lips is all he said, — 

' I murmur'd, as I came along, 
Of comfort cld^'d in truth reveal'd. 
And loiter'd in the masters field, 

And darken'd sanctities with song/ 



IN MEMORIAM 



229 




' Streams that swift or slow 
Draw down ^Eonian hills ' 



xxxvur 
With weary steps I loiter on, 
Tho' always under alter'd skies 
The purple from the distance dies, 
My prospect and horizon gone. 

No joy the blowing season gives, 
The herald melodies of spring, 
But in the songs I love to sing 

A doubtful gleam of solace lives. 

If any care for what is here 
Survive in spirits render'd free, 
Then are these songs I sing of thee 

Not all ungrateful to thine ear. 

XXXIX 

Old warder of these buried bones, 
And answering now my random 

stroke 
With fruitful cloud and living 
smoke, 
Dark yew, that graspest at the stones 

And dippest toward the dreamless 
head, 
To thee too comes the golden hour 
When flower is feeling after flower ; 

But Sorrow, — fixt upon the dead, 



And darkening the dark graves of 
men, — 
What whisper'd from her lying 

lips? 
Thy gloom is kindled at the tips, 
And passes into gloom again. 



Could we forget the widow' d hour 
And look on Spirits breathed away, 
As on a maiden in the day 

When first she wears her orange-flower! 

When crown'd with blessing she doth 
rise 
To take her latest leave of home. 
And hopes and light regrets that 
come 
Make April of her tender eves ; 

And doubtful joys the father move. 
And tears are on the mother's face. 
As parting with a long embrace 

She enters other realms of love ; 

Her office there to rear, to teach. 
Becoming as is meet and lit 
A link among the days, to knit 

The generations each with each ; 



230 



IN MEMORIAM 



And, doubtless, unto thee is given 
A life that bears immortal fruit 
In those great offices that suit 

The full-grown energies of heaven. 

Ay me, the difference I discern ! 
How often shall her old fireside 
Be cheer'd with tidings of the bride, 

How often she herself return, 

And tell them all they would have 
told, 
And bring her babe, and make her 

boast, 
Till even those that miss'd her most 
Shall count new things as dear as 
old; 

But thou and I have shaken hands, 
Till growing winters lay me low ; 
My paths are in the fields I know, 

And thine in undiscover'd lands. 



Thy spirit ere our fatal loss 
Did ever rise from high to higher, 
As mounts the heavenward altar- 
fire, 

As flies the lighter thro' the gross. 

But thou art turn'd to something 
strange, 
And I have lost the links that bound 
Thy changes ; here upon the ground, 

No more partaker of thy change. 

Deep folly ! yet that this could be — 
That I could wing my will with 

might 
To leap the grades of life and light, 

And flash at once, my friend, to thee ! 

For tho' my nature rarely yields 
To that vague fear implied in death, 
Nor shudders at the gulfs beneath, 

The howlings from forgotten fields ; 

Yet oft when sundown skirts the 
moor 
An inner trouble I behold, 
A spectral doubt which makes me 
cold, 
That I shall be thy mate no more, 

Tho' following with an upward mind 
The wonders that have come to thee, 



Thro' all the secular to-be, 
But evermore a life behind. 



I vex my heart with fancies dim. 

He still outstript me in the race ; 

It was but unity of place 
That made me dream I rank'd with 
him. 

And so may Place retain us still, 
And he the much-beloved again, 
A lord of large experience, train 

To riper growth the mind and will ; 

And what delights can equal those 
That stir the spirit's inner deeps, 
When one that loves, but knows 
not, reaps 
A truth from one that loves and 
knows ? 

XLIII 

If Sleep and Death be truly one, 
And every spirit's folded bloom 
Thro' all its intervital gloom 

In some long trance should slumber 
on; 

Unconscious of the sliding hour, 
Bare of the body, might it last, 
And silent traces of the past 

Be all the color of the flower : 

So then were nothing lost to man ; 
So that still garden of the souls 
In many a figured leaf enrolls 

The total world since life began ; 

And love will last as pure and whole 
As when he loved me here in Time, 
And at the spiritual prime 

Re waken with the dawning soul. 



How fares it with the happy dead ? # 
For here the man is more and more : 
But he forgets the days before 

God shut the doorways of his head. 

The days have vanish'd, tone and 
tint, 
And yet perhaps the hoarding sense 
Gives out at times — he knows not 
whence — 
A little flash, a mystic hint ; 



IN MEMORIAM 



231 



And in the long harmonious years — 
If Death so taste Lethean springs — 
May some dim touch of earthly 
things 

Surprise thee ranging with thy peers. 

If such a dreamy touch should fall, 
O, turn thee round, resolve the 

doubt ; 
My guardian angel will speak out 

In that high place, and tell thee all. 

XLV 

The baby new to earth and sky, 
What time his tender palm is prest 
Against the circle of the breast, 

Has never thought that ' this is I ; ' 

But as he grows he gathers much, 
And learns the use of ' I' and 'me,' 
And finds ' I am not what I see, 

And other than the things I touch.' 

So rounds he to a separate mind 
From whence clear memory may 

begin, 
As thro' the frame that binds him in 

His isolation grows defined. 

This use may lie in blood and breath, 
Which else were fruitless of their 

due, 
Had man to learn himself anew 

Beyond the second birth of death. 

XLVI 

We ranging down this lower track, 
The path we came by, thorn and 

flower, 
Is shadow'd by the growing hour, 

Lest life should fail in looking back. 

So be it : there no shade can last 
In that deep dawn behind the tomb, 
But clear from marge to marge 
shall bloom 

The eternal landscape of the past ; 

A lifelong tract of time reveal'd, 
The fruitful hours of still increase ; 
Days order'd in a wealthy peace, 

And those five years its richest field. 

O Love, thy province were not large, 
A bounded field, nor stretching 
far ; 



Look also, Love, a brooding star, 
A rosy warmth from marge to marge. 

XLVII 

That each, who seems a separate 
whole, 
Should move his rounds, and fusing 

all 
The skirts of self again, should 
fall 
Remerging in the general Soul, 

Is faith as vague as all unsweet. 
Eternal form shall still divide 
The eternal soul from all beside ; 

And I shall know him when we 
meet; 

And we shall sit at endless feast, 
Enjoying each the other's good. 
What vaster dream can hit the mood 

Of Love on earth ? He seeks at least 

Upon the last and sharpest height, 
Before the spirits fade away, 
Some landing-place, to clasp and 
say, 
'Farewell ! We lose ourselves in 
light.' 

XLVTII 

If these brief lays, of Sorrow born, 
Were taken to be such as closed 
Grave doubts and answers here pro- 
posed, 
Then these were such as men might 
scorn. 

Her care is not to part and prove ; 
She takes, when harsher moods re- 
mit, 
What slender shade of doubt may 
flit, 
And makes it vassal unto love ; 

And hence, indeed, she sports with 
words, 
But better serves a wholesome law, 
And holds it sin and shame to draw 

The deepest measure from the chords ; 

Nor dare she trust a larger lay. 
But rather loosens from the lip 
Short swallow-flights of song, that 
dip 

Their wings in tears, and skim away. 



232 



IN MEMORIAM 



XLIX 

From art, from nature, from the 
schools, 

Let random influences glance. 

Like light in many a shiver' d lance 
That breaks about the dappled pools. 

The lightest wave of thought shall 
lisp, 
The fancy's tenderest eddy wreathe, 
The slightest air of song shall 
breathe 
To make the sullen surface crisp. 

And look thy look, and go thy way. 

But blame not thou the winds that 
make 

The seeming- wanton ripple break, 
The tender-pencill'd shadow play. 

Beneath all fancied hopes and fears 
Ay me, the sorrow deepens down, 
Whose muffled motions blindly 
drown 

The bases of my life in tears. 



Be near me when my light is low, 
When the blood creeps, and the 

nerves prick 
And tingle ; and the heart is sick, 

And all the wheels of being slow. 

Be near me when the sensuous frame 
Is rack'd with pangs that conquer 

trust ; 
And Time, a maniac scattering dust, 

And Life, a Fury slinging flame. 

Be near me when my faith is dry, 
And men the flies of latter spring, 
That lay their eggs, and sting and 
sing 

And weave their petty cells and die. 

Be near me when I fade away, 
To point the term of human strife, 
And on the low dark verge of life 

The twilight of eternal day. 



Do we indeed desire the dead 

Should still be near us at our side ? 
Is there no baseness we would 
hide? 

No inner vileness that we dread ? 



Shall he for whose applause I strove, 
I had such reverence for his blame, 
See with clear eye some hidden 
shame 

And I be lessen'd in his love ? 

I wrong the grave with fears untrue. 
Shall love be blamed for want of 

faith ? 
There must be wisdom with great 
Death ; 
The dead shall look me thro' and thro*. 

Be near us when we climb or fall ; 
Ye watch, like God, the rolling hours 
With larger other eyes than ours, 

To make allowance for us all. 



I cannot love thee as I ought, 
For love reflects the thing beloved ; 
My words are only words, and moved 

Upon the topmost froth of thought. 

'Yet blame not thou thy plaintive 
song,' 
The Spirit of true love replied ; 
' Thou canst not move me from thy 
side, 
Nor human frailty do me wrong. 

'What keeps a spirit wholly true 
To that ideal which he bears ? 
What record ? not the sinless years 

That breathed beneath the Syrian blue ; 

■ So fret not, like an idle girl, 
That life is dash'd with flecks of 

sin. 
Abide ; thy wealth is gather' d in, 
When Time hath sunder d shell from 
pearl/ 



How many a father have I seen, 
A sober man, among his boys, 
Whose youth was full of foolish 
noise, 
Who wears his manhood hale and 
green ; 

And dare we to this fancy give, 
That had the wild oat not been sown, 
The soil, left barren, scarce had 
grown 

The grain by which a man may live ? 



IN MEMORIAM 



2 33 



Or, if we held the doctrine sound 
For life outliving heats of youth, 
Yet who would preach it as a truth 

To those that eddy round and round ? 

Hold thou the good, define it well ; 
For fear divine Philosophy 
Should push beyond her mark, and 
be 

Procuress to the Lords of Hell. 



0, yet we trust that somehow good 
Will be the final goal of ill, 
To pangs of nature, sins of will, 

Defects of doubt, and taints of blood ; 

That nothing walks with aimless feet ; 
That not one life shall be destroy'd, 
Or cast as rubbish to the void, 

When God hath made the pile com- 
plete ; 

That not a worm is cloven in vain ; 
That not a moth with vain desire 
Is shrivell'd in a fruitless fire, 

Or but subserves another's gain. 

Behold, we know not anything ; 
I can but trust that good shall fall 
At last — far off — at last, to all, 

And every winter change to spring. 

So runs my dream ; but what am I ? 

An infant crying in the night ; 

An infant crying for the light, 
And with no language but a cry. 

LV 

The wish, that of the living whole 
No life may fail beyond the grave, 
Derives it not from what we have 

The likest God within the soul ? 

Are God and Nature then at strife, 
That Nature lends such evil dreams ? 
So careful of the type she seems, 

So careless of the single life, 

That I, considering everywhere 
Her secret meaning in her deeds, 
And finding that of fifty seeds 

She often brings but one to bear, 

I falter where I firmly trod, 
And falling with my weight of cares 



Upon the great world's altar- stairs 
That slope thro' darkness up to God, 

I stretch lame hands of faith, and 
grope, 
And gather dust and chaff, and call 
To what I feel is Lord of all, 

And faintly trust the larger hope. 



' So careful of the type ? ' but no. 
From scarped cliff and quarried stone 
She cries, 'A thousand types are 
gone ; 

I care for nothing, all shall go. 

1 Thou makest thine appeal to me : 
I bring to life, I bring to death ; 
The spirit does but mean the breath : 

I know no more.' And he, shall he, 

Man, her last work, who seem'd so fair, 
Such splendid purpose in his eyes, 
Who roll'd the psalm to wintry skies. 

Who built him fanes of fruitless prayer, 

Who trusted God was love indeed 
And love Creation's final law — 
Tho' Nature, red in tooth and claw 

With ravine, shriek' d against his 
creed — 

Who loved, who suffer' d countless ills. 
Who battled for the True, the Just, 
Be blown about the desert dust, 

Or seal'd within the iron hills ? 

No more ? A monster then, a dream. 
A discord. Dragons of the prime. 
That tare each other in their slime. 

Were mellow music match'd with him. 

O life as futile, then, as frail ! 

O for thy voice to soothe and bless ! 

What hope of answer, or redress ? 
Behind the veil, behind the veil. 



Peace ; come away : the song of woe 
Is after all an earthly song. 
Peace; come away: we do him 
wrong 

To sing so wildly : let us go. 

Come ; let us go : your cheeks are pale 
But half my life 1 leave behind. 



234 



IN MEMORIAM 



Methinks my friend is richly 
shrined ; 
But I shall pass, my work will fail. 

Yet in these ears, till hearing dies, 
One set slow bell will seem to toll 
The passing of the sweetest soul 

That ever look'd with human eyes. 

I hear it now, and o'er and o'er, 
Eternal greetings to the dead ; 
And ' Ave, Ave, Ave,' said, 

1 Adieu, adieu,' for evermore. 



In those sad words I took farewell. 
Like echoes in sepulchral halls, 
As drop by drop the water falls 

In vaults and catacombs, they fell ; 

And, falling, idly broke the peace 
Of hearts that beat from day to 

day, 
Half-conscious of their dying clay, 
And those cold crypts where they shall 
cease. 

The high Muse answer'd : ' Wherefore 
grieve 

Thy brethren with a fruitless tear ? 

Abide a little longer here, 
And thou shalt take a nobler leave.' 

LIX 

O Sorrow, wilt thou live with me 
No casual mistress, but a wife, 
My bosom-friend and half of life ; 

As I confess it needs must be ? 

O Sorrow, wilt thou rule my blood, 
Be sometimes lovely like a bride, 
And put thy harsher moods aside, 

If thou wilt have me wise and good ? 

My centred passion cannot move, 
Nor will it lessen from to-day ; 
But I '11 have leave at times to 
play 

As with the creature of my love ; 

And set thee forth, for thou art mine, 
With so much hope for years to 

come, 
That, howsoe'er I know thee, some 
Could hardly tell what name were 
thine. 



He past, a soul of nobler tone ; 
My spirit loved and loves him yet, 
Like some poor girl whose heart is 
set 

On one whose rank exceeds her own. 

He mixing with his proper sphere, 
She finds the baseness of her lot, 
Half jealous of she knows not what, 

And envying all that meet him there. 

The little village looks forlorn ; 
She sighs amid her narrow days, 
Moving about the household ways, 

In that dark house where she was born. 

The foolish neighbors come and go, 
And tease her till the day draws by ; 
At night she weeps, ' How vain am I J 

How should he love a thing so low ? ' 



If, in thy second state sublime, 

Thy ransom'd reason change replies 
With all the circle of the wise, 

The perfect flower of human time ; 

And if thou cast thine eyes below, 
How dimly character'd and slight, 
How dwarf'd a growth of cold and 
night, 
How blanch'd with darkness must I 
grow ! 

Yet turn thee to the doubtful shore, 
Where thy first form was made a 

man ; 
I loved thee, Spirit, and love, nor can 
The soul of Shakespeare love thee 
more. 



Tho' if an eye that's downward cast 
Could make thee somewhat blench 

or fail, 
Then be my love an idle tale 

And fading legend of the past; 

And thou, as one that once declined, 
When he was little more than boy, 
On some unworthy heart with joy, 

But lives to wed an equal mind, 

And breathes a novel world, the while 
His other passion wholly dies, 




IN MEMORIAM 



2 35 



Or in the light of deeper eyes 
Is matter for a flying smile. v 

LXIII 

Yet pity for a horse o'er-driven, 
And love in which my hound has 

part, 
Can hang no weight upon my heart 

In its assumptions up to heaven ; 

And I am so much more than these, 
As thou, perchance, art more than I, 
And yet I spare them sympathy, 

And I would set their pains at ease. 

So mayst thou watch me where I 
weep, 
As, unto vaster motions bound, 
The circuits of thine orbit round 

A higher height, a deeper deep. 

LXIV 

Dost thou look back on what hath 
been, 
As some divinely gifted man, 
Whose life in low estate began 

And on a simple village green ; 

Who breaks his birth's invidious bar, 
And grasps the skirts of happy 

chance, 
And breasts the blows of circum- 
stance, 
And grapples with his evil star ; 

Who makes by force his merit known 
And lives to clutch the golden keys, 
To mould a mighty state's decrees, 

And shape the whisper of the throne ; 

And moving up from high to higher, 
Becomes on Fortune's crowning 

slope 
The pillar of a people's hope, 

The centre of a world's desire ; 

Yet feels, as in a pensive dream, 
When all his active powers are 

still, 
A distant dearness in the hill, 

A secret sweetness in the stream, 

The limit of his narrower fate, 
While yet beside its vocal springs 
He play'd at counsellors and kings, 

With one that was his earliest mate ; 



Who ploughs with pain his native lea 
And reaps the labor of his hands, 
Or in the furrow musing stands : 

1 Does my old friend remember me ? ' 

LXV 

Sweet soul, do with me as thou wilt ; 

I lull a fancy trouble- tost 

With ' Love 's too precious to be lost, 
A little grain shall not be spilt.' 

And in that solace can I sing, 
Till out of painful phases wrought 
There flutters up a happy thought, 

Self-balanced on a lightsome wing ; 

Since we deserved the name of friends, 
And thine effect so lives in me, 
A part of mine may live in thee 

And move thee on to noble ends. 



You thought my heart too far diseased ; 
You wonder when my fancies play 
To find me gay among the gay, 

Like one with any trifle pleased. 

The shade by which my life was crost, 
Which makes a desert in the mind, 
Has made nie kindly with my kind, 

And like to him whose sight is lost ; 

Whose feec are guided thro' the land, 
Whose jest among his friends is free, 
Who takes the children on his knee, 

And winds their curls about his hand. 

He plays with threads, he beats his 
chair 

For pastime, dreaming of the sky ; 

His inner day can never die, 
His night of loss is always there. 



When on my bed the moonlight falls, 
I know that in thy place of rest 
By that broad water of the west 

There comes a glory on the walls: 

Thy marble bright in dark appears, 
As slowly steals a silver flame 
Along the letters of thy name, 

And o'er the number of thy years. 

The mystic glory swims away. 
From off my bed the moonlight dies; 



236 



IN MEMORIAM 



And closing eaves of wearied eyes 
I sleep till dusk is dipt in gray ; 

And then I know the mist is drawn 
A lucid veil from coast to coast. 
And in the dark church like a ghost 

Thy tablet glimmers in the dawn. 

LXVIII 

When in the down I sink my head, 
Sleep, Death's twin-brother, times 

my breath ; 
Sleep, Death's twin-brother, knows 
not Death, 
Nor can I dream of thee as dead. 

I walk as ere I walk'd forlorn, 
When all our path was fresh with 

dew, 
And all the bugle breezes blew 

Reveillee to the breaking morn. 

But what is this ? I turn about, 
I find a trouble in thine eye, 
Which makes me sad I know not 
why, 

Nor can my dream resolve the doubt ; 

But ere the lark hath left the lea 
I wake, and I discern the truth ; 
It is the trouble of my youth 

That foolish sleep transfers to thee. 

LXIX 

I dream'd there would be Spring no 
more, 
That Nature's ancient power was 

lost ; 
The streets were black with smoke 
and frost, 
They chatter'd trifles at the door ; 

I wander'd from the noisy town, 
I found a wood with thorny boughs ; 
I took the thorns to bind my brows, 

I wore them like a civic crown ; 

I met with scoffs, I met with scorns 
From youth and babe and hoary 

hairs : 
They call'd me in the public squares 

The fool that wears a crown of thorns. 

They call'd me fool, they call'd me 
child : 
I found an angel of the night ; 



The .voice was low, the look was 
bright ; 
He look'd upon my crown and smiled. 

He reach'd the glory of a hand, 
That seem'd to touch it into leaf ; 
The voice was not the voice of 
grief, 

The words were hard to understand. 

LXX 

I cannot see the features right, 

When on the gloom I strive to 

paint 
The face I know ; the hues are faint 

And mix with hollow masks of night ; 

Cloud-towers by ghostly masons 
wrought, 
A gulf that ever shuts and gapes, 
A hand that points, and palled shapes 

In shadowy thoroughfares of thought ; 

And crowds that stream from yawning 
doors, 

And shoals of pucker'd faces drive ; 

Dark bulks that tumble half alive, 
And lazy lengths on boundless shores ; 

Till all at once beyond the will 
I hear a wizard music roll, 
And thro' a lattice on the soul 

Looks thy fair face and makes it still. 

LXXI 

Sleep, kinsman thou to death and 
trance 
And madness, thou hast forged at 

last 
A night-long present of the past 
In which we went thro' summer 
France. 

Hadst thou such credit with the 
soul ? 
Then bring an opiate trebly strong, 
Drug down the blindfold sense of 
wrong, 
That so my pleasure may be whole ; 

While now we talk as once we talk'd 
Of men and minds, the dust of 

change, 
The days that grow to something 
strange, 
In walking as of old we walk'd 



IN MEMORIAM 



237 



Beside the river's wooded reach, 
The fortress, and the mountain 

ridge, 
The cataract flashing from the 
bridge, 
The breaker breaking on the beach. 

LXXII 

Risest thou thus, dim dawn, again, 
And howlest, issuing out of night, 
With blasts that blow the poplar 
white, 
And lash with storm the streaming 
pane ? 

Day, when my crown' d estate begun 
To pine in that reverse of doom, 



Which sicken' d every living bloom, 
And blurr'd the splendor of the 
sun ; 

Who usherest in the dolorous hour 
With thy quick tears that make the 

rose 
Pull sideways, and the daisy close 

Her crimson fringes to the shower ; 

Who mightst have heaved a windless 
flame 
Up the deep East, or, whispering, 

play'd 
A chequer - work of beam and 
shade 
Along the hills, yet look'd the same, 




4 1 found a wood with thorny boughs ' 



2 3 8 



IN MEMORIAM 



As wan, as chill, as wild as now ; 
Day, mark'd as with some hideous 

crime. 
When the dark hand struck down 
thro' time, 
And cancell'd nature's best : but thou, 

Lift as thou mayst thy burthen' d 
brows 
Thro' clouds that drench the morn- 
ing star, 
And whirl the ungarner'd sheaf afar, 
And sow the sky with flying boughs, 

And up thy vault with roaring sound 
Climb thy thick noon, disastrous 

day ; 
Touch thy dull goal of joyless gray, 
And hide thy shame beneath the 
ground. 

LXXIII 

So many worlds, so much to do, 
So little done, such things to be, 
How know I what had need of thee, 

For thou wert strong as thou wert 
true ? 

The fame is quench'd that I foresaw, 
The head hath miss'd an earthly 

wreath : 
I curse not Nature, no, nor Death ; 

For nothing is that errs from law. 

We pass ; the path that each man trod 
Is dim, or will be dim, with weeds. 
What fame is left for human deeds 

In endless age ? It rests with God. 

O hollow wraith of dying fame, 
Fade wholly, while the soul exults, 
And self-infolds the large results 

Of force that would have forged a 
name. 

I. XX IV 

As sometimes in a dead man's face, 
To those that watch it more and 

more, 
A likeness, hardly seen before, 

Comes out — to some one of his race ; 

So, dearest, now thy brows are cold, 
I sec thee what thou art, and know 
Thy likeness to the wise below, 

Thy kindred with the great of old. 



But there is more than I can see, 
And what I see I leave unsaid, 
Nor speak it, knowing Death has 
made 

His darkness beautiful with thee. 



I leave thy praises unexpress'd 
In verse that brings myself relief, 
And by the measure of my grief 

I leave thy greatness to be guess'd. 

What practice howsoe'er expert 
In fitting aptest words to things, 
Or voice the richest-toned that 
sings, 

Hath power to give thee as thou wert ? 

I care not in these fading days 
To raise a cry that lasts not long, 
And round thee with the breeze of 
song 

To stir a little dust of praise. 

Thy leaf has perish'd in the green, 
And, while we breathe beneath the 

sun, 
The world which credits what is 
done 
Is cold to all that might have been. 

So here shall silence guard thy fame ; 
But somewhere, out of human view, 
Whate'er thy hands are set to do 

Is wrought with tumult of acclaim. 

LXXVI 

Take wings of fancy, and ascend, 
And in a moment set thy face 
Where all the starry heavens of space 

Are sharpen'd to a needle's end ; 

Take wings of foresight; lighten thro' 
The secular abyss to come, 
And lo, thy deepest lays are dumb 

Before the mouldering of a yew ; 

And if the mayn songs, that woke 
The darkness of our planet, last, 
Thine own shall wither in the vast, 

Ere half the lifetime of an oak. 

Ere these have clothed their branchy 
bowers 
With fifty Mays, thy songs are 
vain ; 



IN MEMORIAM 



2 39 



And what are they when these remain 
The ruin'd shells of hollow towers ? 

LXXVII 

What hope is here for modern rhyme 
To him who turns a musing eye 
On songs, and deeds, and lives, that 
lie 

Foreshorten' d in the tract of time ? 

These mortal lullabies of pain 

May bind a book, may line a box. 
May serve to curl a maiden's locks ; 
Or when a thousand moons shall wane 

A man upon a stall may find, 
And, passing, turn the page that tells 
A grief, then changed to something 
else, 

Sung by a long-forgotten mind. 

But what of that ? My darkened ways 
Shall ring with music all the same ; 
To breathe my loss is more than 
fame, 

To utter love more sweet than praise. 



Again at Christmas did we weave 
The holly round the Christmas 

hearth ; 
The silent snow possess'd the earth. 

And calmly fell our Christmas-eve. 

The yule - clog sparkled keen with 
frost, 
No wing of wind the region swept. 
But over all things brooding slept 

The quiet sense of something lost. 

As in the winters left behind, 

Again our ancient games had place, 
The mimic picture's breathing grace, 

And dance and song and hood man- 
blind. 

Who show'd a token of distress ? 
No single tear, no mark of pain — 
O sorrow, then can sorrow wane ? 

() grief, can grief be changed to less? 

() hist regret, regret can die ! 

No— mixt with all this mystic 
frame, 

Her dee]) relations are the same, 
Hut with long use her tears are dry. 



LXX1X 

'More than my brothers are to me,' — 
Let this not vex thee, noble heart ! 
I know thee of what force thou art 

To hold the costliest love in fee. 

But thou and 1 are one in kind. 
As moulded like in Nature's mint ; 
And hill and wood and held did print 

The same sweet forms in either mind. 

For us the same cold streamlet curl'd 
Thro' all his eddying coves, the same 
All winds that roam the twilight 
came 

In whispers of the beauteous world. 

At one dear knee we proffer' d vows. 
One lesson from one book welearn'd, 
Ere childhood's flaxen ringlet turn'd 

To black and brown on kindred brows. 

And so my wealth resembles thine. 
But he was rich where 1 was poor. 
And he supplied my want the more 

As his unlikeness fitted mine. 

LXXX 

If any vague desire should rise, 
That holy Death ere Arthur died 
Had moved me kindly from his side. 

And dropt the dust on tearless eyes ; 

Then fancy shapes, as fancy can. 

The grief my loss in him had 
wrought, 

A grief as deep as life or thought. 
But stay'd in peace with Cod and man. 

1 make a picture in the brain ; 

I hear the sentence that he speaks; 

He bears the burthen of the weeks. 
But turns his burthen into gain. 

His credit thus shall set me free ; 

And, influence-rich to soothe and 

save, 
Unused example from the grave 
Reach out dead hands to comfort me. 

I WX1 

Could 1 have said while he was here, 

• My love shall now no further range : 
There cannot come a mellower 
change, 

For now is love mature in e.i 



240 



IN MEMORIAM 



Love, then, had hope of richer store : 
What end is here to my complaint ? 
This haunting whisper makes me 
faint, 
'More years had made me love thee 
more. ' 

But Death returns an answer sweet : 
1 My sudden frost was sudden gain 
And gave all ripeness to the grain, 

It might have drawn from after- 
heat. ' 



I wage not any feud with Death 
For changes wrought on form and 

face ; 
No lower life that earth's embrace 
May breed with him can fright my 
faith. 

Eternal process moving on, 

From state to state the spirit walks ; 

And these are but the shatter'd 
stalks, 
Or ruin'd chrysalis of one. 

Nor blame I Death, because he bare 
The use of virtue out of earth ; 
I know transplanted human worth 

Will bloom to profit, otherwhere. 

For this alone on Death I wreak 
The wrath that garners in my heart : 
He put our lives so far apart 

We cannot hear each other speak. 



Dip down upon the northern shore, 
O sweet new-year delaying long ; 
Thou doest expectant Nature wrong ; 

Delaying long, delay no more. 

What stays thee from the clouded 
noons, 

Thy sweetness from its proper place? 

Can trouble live with April days, 
Or sadness in the summer moons ? 

Bring orchis, bring the foxglove spire, 
The little speedwell's darling blue, 
Deep tulips dash'd with fiery dew, 

Laburnums, dropping- wells of fire. 

O thou, new-year, delaying long, 
Delayest the sorrow in my blood, 



That longs to burst a frozen bud 
And flood a fresher throat with song. 



When I contemplate all alone 

The life that had been thine below, 
And fix my thoughts on all the 
glow 
To which thy crescent would have 
grown, 

I see thee sitting crown'd with good, 
A central warmth diffusing bliss 
In glance and smile, and clasp and 
kiss, 

On all the branches of thy blood ; 

Thy blood, my friend, and partly mine ; 
For now the day was drawing on. 
When thou shouldst link thy life 
with one 

Of mine own house, and boys of thine 

Had babbled ' Uncle ' on my knee ; 
But that remorseless iron hour 
Made cypress of her orange flower, 

Despair of hope, and earth of thee. 

I seem to meet their least desire, 
To clap their cheeks, to call them 

mine. 
I see their unborn faces shine 

Beside the never-lighted fire. 

I see myself an honor' d guest, 
Thy partner in the flowery walk 
Of letters, genial table-talk, 

Or deep dispute, and graceful jest; 

While now thy prosperous labor fills 
The lips of men with honest praise, 
And sun by sun the happy days 

Descend below the golden hills 

With promise of a morn as fair ; 
And all the train of bounteous 

hours 
Conduct, by paths of growing 
powers, 
To reverence and the silver hair ; 

Till slowly worn her earthly robe, 
Her lavish mission richly wrought, 
Leaving great legacies of thought, 

Thy spirit should fail from off the 
globe ; 



IN MEMORIAM 



241 



What time mine own might also flee, 
As link'd with thine in love and fate, 
And, hovering o'er the dolorous 
strait 

To the other shore, involved in thee, 

Arrive at last the blessed goal, 
And He that died in Holy Land 
Would reach us out the shining 
hand, 

And take us as a single soul. 

What reed was that on which I leant ? 

Ah, backward fancy, wherefore 
w T ake 

The old bitterness again, and break 
The low beginnings of content ! 

LXXXV 

This truth came borne with bier and 
pall, 
I felt it, when I sorrow' d most, 
'T is better to have loved and lost, 

Than never to have loved at all — 

O true in word, and tried in deed, 
Demanding, so to bring relief 
To this which is our common grief, 

What kind of life is that I lead ; 

And whether trust in things above 
Be dimm'd of sorrow, or sustain'd ; 
And whether love for him have 
drain' d 

My capabilities of love ; 

Your words have virtue such as draws 
A faithful answer from the breast, 
Thro' light reproaches, half exprest, 

And loyal unto kindly laws. 

My blood an even tenor kept, 

Till on mine ear this message falls, 
That in Vienna's fatal walls 

God's finger touch'd him, and he slept. 

The great Intelligences fair 

That range above our mortal state, 
In circle round the blessed gate, 

Received and gave him welcome there ; 

And led him thro' the blissful climes, 
And show'd him in the fountain 

fresh 
All knowledge that the sons of flesh 

Shall gather in the cycled times. 



But I remain'd, whose hopes were dim, 
Whose life, whose thoughts were 

little worth, 
To wander on a darken'd earth, 
Where all things round me breathed 
of him. 

O friendship, equal-poised control, 
O heart, with kindliest motion warm, 

sacred essence, other form, 

solemn ghost, O crowned soul ! 

Yet none could better know than I, 
How much of act at human hands 
The sense of human will demands 

By which we dare to live or die. 

Whatever way my days decline, 

1 felt and feel, tho' left alone, 
His being w T orking in mine own, 

The footsteps of his life in mine ; 

A life that all the Muses deck'd 
With gifts of grace, that might ex- 
press 
All-comprehensive tenderness, 

All- subtilizing intellect : 

And so my passion hath not swerved 
To works of weakness, but I find 
An image comforting the mind, 

And in my grief a strength reserved. 

Likewise the imaginative woe, 

That loved to handle spiritual strife, 
Diffused the shock thro' all my life, 

But in the present broke the blow. 

My pulses therefore beat again 
For other friends that once I met ; 
Nor can it suit me to forget 

The mighty hopes that make us men. 

1 woo your love : I count it crime 
To mourn for any overmuch ; 

I, the divided half of such 
A friendship as had master'd Time ; 

Which masters Time indeed, and is 
Eternal, separate from fears. 
The all-assuming months and years 

Can take no part away from this ; 

But Summer on the steaming floods, 
And Spring that swells the narrow 
brooks, 



242 



IN MEMORIAM 



And Autumn, with a noise of rooks, 
That gather in the waning woods, 

And every pulse of wind and wave 
Recalls, in change of light or gloom, 
My old affection of the tomb, 

And my prime passion in the grave. 

My old affection of the tomb, 

A part of stillness, yearns to speak : 
' Arise, and get thee forth and seek 

A friendship for the years to come. 

' 1 watch thee from the quiet shore ; 

Thy spirit up to mine can reach ; 

But in dear words of human speech 
We two communicate no more.' 

And I, 'Can clouds of nature stain 
The starry clearness of the free ? 
How is it ? Canst thou feel for me 

Some painless sympathy with pain ? ' 

And lightly does the whisper fall : 
"T is hard for thee to fathom this ; 
I triumph in conclusive bliss, 

And that serene result of all. ' 

So hold I commerce with the dead ; 

Or so methinks the dead would 
say; 

Or so shall grief with symbols play 
And pining life be fancy-fed. 

Now looking to some settled end, 
That these things pass, and I shall 

prove 
A meeting somewhere, love with 
love, 
I crave your pardon, O my friend ; 

If not so fresh, with love as true, 
I, clasping brother-hands, aver 
I could not, if I would, transfer 

The whole I felt for him to you. 

For which be they that hold apart 
The promise of the golden hours ? 
First love, first friendship, equal 
powers, 

That marry with the virgin heart. 

Still mine, that cannot but deplore, 
That beats within a lonely place, 
That yet remembers his embrace, 

But at his footstep leaps no more, 



My heart, tho' widow'd, may not 
rest 
Quite in the love of what is gone, 
But seeks to beat in time with 
one 
That warms another living breast. 

Ah, take the imperfect gift I bring, 
Knowing the primrose yet is dear, 
The primrose of the later year, 

As not unlike to that of Spring. 

LXXXVI 

Sweet after showers, ambrosial air. 

That rollest from the gorgeous 
gloom 

Of evening over brake and bloom 
And meadow, slowly breathing bare 

The round of space, and rapt below 
Thro' all the dewy tassell'd wood, 
And shadowing down the horned 
flood 

In ripples, fan my brows and blow 

The fever from my cheek, and sigh 
The full new life that feeds thy 

breath 
Throughout my frame, till Doubt 
and Death, 
111 brethren, let the fancy fly 

From belt to belt of crimson seas 
On leagues of odor streaming far, 
To where in yonder orient star 

A hundred spirits whisper ' Peace. ' 



I past beside the reverend walls 
In which of old I wore the gown ; 
I roved at random thro' the town, 

And saw the tumult of the halls ; 

And heard once more in college 
fanes 
The storm their high-built organs 

make, 
And thunder-music, rolling, shake 
The prophet blazon'd on the panes ; 

And caught once more the distant 
shout, 
The measured pulse of racing oars 
Among the willows ; paced the 
shores 
And many a bridge, and all about 




1 Thro' all the dewy tassell'd wood ' 



The same gray flats again, and felt 
The same, but not the same ; and last 
Up that long walk of limes I past 

To see the rooms in which he dwelt. 

Another name was on the door. 
I linger'd ; all within was noise 
Of songs, and clapping hands, and 
boys 
That crash'd the glass and beat the 
floor ; 

Where once we held debate, a band 
Of youthful friends, on mind and 

art, 
And labor, and the changing mart, 

And all the framework of the land ; 

When one would aim an arrow fair, 
But send it slackly from the string ; 
And one would pierce an outer 
ring, 

And one an inner, here and there ; 



And last the master-bowman, he. 
Would cleave the mark. A willing 

ear 
We lent him. Who but hung to 
hear 
The rapt oration flowing free 

From point to point, with power and 
grace 
And music in the bounds of law. 
To those conclusions when we saw 

The God within him light his face. 

And seem to lift the form, and glow 
In azure orbits heavenly-wise ; 
And over those ethereal eves 

The bar of Michael Angelo ? 

LXXXVlll 

Wild bird, whose warble, liquid sweet. 

Rings Eden thro' the budded quicks. 

O. tell me where the senses mix. 
O, tell me where the passions meet. 



244 



IN MEMORIAM 



Whence radiate : fierce extremes em- 
ploy 
Thy spirits in the darkening leaf, 
And in the midmost heart of grief 

Thy passion clasps a secret joy ; 

And I — my harp would prelude woe — 
I cannot all command the strings ; 
The glory of the sum of things 

Will flash along the chords and go. 

LXXXIX 

Witch- elms that counterchange the 
floor 
Of this flat lawn with dusk and 

bright ; 
And thou, with all thy breadth and 
height 
Of foliage, towering sycamore ; 

How often, hither wandering down, 
My Arthur found your shadows fair, 
And shook to all the liberal air 

The dust and din and steam of town ! 

He brought an eye for all he saw ; 

He mixt in all our simple sports ; 

They pleased him, fresh from brawl- 
ing courts 
And dusty purlieus of the law. 

O joy to him in this retreat, 
tmmantled in ambrosial dark, 
To drink the cooler air, and mark 

The landscape winking thro' the 
heat ! 

O sound to rout the brood of cares, 
The sweep of scythe in morning 

dew, 
The gust that round the garden flew, 

And tumbled half the mellowing pears ! 

O bliss, when all in circle drawn 
About him, heart and ear were fed 
To hear him, as he lay and read 

The Tuscan poets on the lawn ! 

Or in the all-golden afternoon 
A guest, or happy sister, sung, 
Or here she brought the harp and 
flung 

A ballad to the brightening moon. 

Nor less it pleased in livelier moods, 
Beyond the bounding hill to stray, 



And break the livelong summer 
day 
With banquet in the distant woods ; 

Whereat we glanced from theme to 
theme, 
Discuss'd the books to love or hate, 
Or touch' d the changes of the state, 

Or threaded some Socratic dream ; 

But if I praised the busy town, 
He loved to rail against it still, 
For ' ground in yonder social mill 

We rub each other's angles down, 

'And merge,' he said, 'in form and 
gloss 
The picturesque of man and man. ' 
We talk'd: the stream beneath us 
ran, 
The wine-flask lying couch'd in moss, 

Or cool'd within the glooming wave ; 
And last, returning from afar, 
Before the crimson-circled star 

Had fallen into her father's grave, 

And brushing ankle-deep in flowers, 
We heard behind the woodbine veil 
The milk that bubbled in the pail, 

And buz zings of the honeyed hours. 

xc 

He tasted love with half his mind, 
Nor ever drank the inviolate spring 
Where nighest heaven, who first 
could fling 

This bitter seed among mankind : 

That could the dead, whose dying 
eyes 
Were closed with wail, resume their 

life, 
They would but find in child and 
wife 
An iron welcome when they rise. 

'T was well, indeed, when warm with 
wine, 
To pledge them with a kindly tear, 
To talk them o'er, to wish them 
here, 
To count their memories half divine ; 

But if they came who past away, 
Behold their brides in other hands ; 






IN MEMORIAM 



2 45 



The hard heir strides about their 
lands, 
And will not yield them for a day. 

Yea, tho' their sons were none of these, 
Not less the yet-loved sire would 

make 
Confusion worse than death, and 
shake 
The pillars of domestic peace. 

Ah, dear, but come thou back to me ! 

Whatever change the years have 
wrought, 

I find not yet one lonely thought 
That cries against my wish for thee. 

xci 

When rosy plumelets tuft the larch, 
And rarely pipes the mounted thrush, 
Or underneath the barren bush 

Flits by the sea-blue bird of March ; 

Come, wear the form by which I know 
Thy spirit in time among thy peers ; 
The hope of unaccomplish'd years 

Be large and lucid round thy brow. 

When summer's hourly - mellowing 
change 
May breathe, with many roses sweet, 
Upon the thousand waves of wheat 

That ripple round the lowly grange, 

Come ; not in watches of the night, 
But where the sunbeam broodeth 

warm, 
Come, beauteous in thine after form, 

And like a finer light in light. 

xcn 

If any vision should reveal 
Thy likeness, I might count it vain 
As but the canker of the brain ; 

Yea, tho' it spake and made appeal 

To chances where our lots were cast 
Together in the days behind, 
I might but say, I hear a wind 

Of memory murmuring the past. 

Yea, tho' it spake and bared to view 
A fact within the coming year ; 
And tho' the months, revolving near, 

Should prove the phantom-warning 
true, 



They might not seem thy prophecies, 
But spiritual presentiments. 
And such refraction of events 

As often rises ere they rise. 

XCIII 

I shall not see thee. Dare I say 
No spirit ever brake the band 
That stays him from the native land 

Where first he walk'd when claspt in 
clay? 

No visual shade of some one lost, 
But he, the Spirit himself, may come 
Where all the nerve of sense is numb. 

Spirit to Spirit, Ghost to Ghost. 

O, therefore from thy sightless range 
With gods in unconjectured bliss, 
O, from the distance of the abyss 

Of tenfold-complicated change, 

Descend, and touch, and enter ; hear 
The wish too strong for words to 

name, 
That in this blindness of the frame 

My Ghost may feel that thine is near. 

xciv 

How pure at heart and sound in head. 

With what divine affections bold 

Should be the man whose thought 

would hold 

An hour's communion with the dead. 

In vain shalt thou, or any, call , 
The spirits from their golden day. 
Except, like them, thou too canst 
say, 

My spirit is at peace with all. 

They haunt the silence of the breast. 
Imaginations calm and fair, 
The memory like a cloudless air, 

The conscience as a sea at rest ; 

But when the heart is full of din. 
And doubt beside the portal waits. 
They can but listen at the gates, 

And hear the household jar within. 



By night we linger'd on the lawn. 
For underfoot the herb was dry ; 
And genial warmth ; and o'er the skj 

The silvery haze of summer drawn j 



246 



IN MEMORIAM 



And calm that let the tapers burn 
Unwavering : not a cricket chirr 'd ; 
The brook alone far-off was heard, 

And on the board the fluttering urn. 

And bats went round in fragrant skies, 
And wheel'd or lit the filmy shapes 
That haunt the dusk, with ermine 
capes 

And woolly breasts and beaded eyes ; 

While now we sang old songs that 
peal'd 
From knoll to knoll, where, couch'd 

at ease, 
The white kine glimmer'd, and the 
trees 
Laid their dark arms about the field. 

But when those others, one by one, 
Withdrew themselves from me and 

night, 
And in the house light after light 

Went out, and I was all alone, 

A hunger seized my heart ; I read 
Of that glad year which once had 

been, 
In those fallen leaves which kept 
their green, 
The noble letters of the dead. 

And strangely on the silence broke 
The silent - speaking words, and 

strange 
Was love's dumb cry defying change 

To test his worth ; and strangely spoke 

The faith, the vigor, bold to dwell 
On doubts that drive the coward 

back, 
And keen thro' wordy snares to track 

Suggestion to her inmost cell. 

So word by word, and line by line, 
The dead man touch'd me from the 

past, 
And all at once it seem'd at last 

The living soul was flash' d on mine, 

And mine in this was wound, and 
whirl' d 
About empyreal heights of thought, 
And came on that which is, and 
caught 
The deep pulsations of the world, 



JEonian music measuring out 

The steps of Time — the shocks of 

Chance — 
The blows of Death. At length 
my trance 
Was cancell'd, stricken thro' with 
doubt. 

Vague words ! but ah, how hard to 
frame 
In matter-moulded forms of speech, 
Or even for intellect to reach 

Thro' memory that which I became ; 

Till now the doubtful dusk reveal'd 
The knolls once more where, couch'd 

at ease, 
The white kine glimmer'd, and the 
trees 
Laid their dark arms about the field ; 

And suck'd from out the distant gloom 
A breeze began to tremble o'er 
The large leaves of the sycamore, 

And fluctuate all the still perfume, 

And gathering freshlier overhead, 
Rock'd the full-foliaged elms, and 

swung 
The heavy-folded rose, and flung 

The lilies to and fro, and said, 

' The dawn, the dawn,' and died away ; 
x^nd East and West, without a 

breath, 
Mixt their dim lights, like life and 
death, 
To broaden into boundless day. 



You say, but with no touch of scorn, 
Sweet-hearted, you, whose light- 
blue eyes 
Are tender over drowning flies, 

You tell me, doubt is Devil-born. 

I know not : one indeed I knew 
In many a subtle question versed, 
Who touch'd a jarring lyre at first, 

But ever strove to make it true ; 

Perplext in faith, but pure in deeds, 
At last he beat his music out. 
There lives more faith in honest 
doubt, 

Believe me, than in half the creeds. 



IN MEMORIAM 



247 



He fought his doubts and gather'd 
strength, 
He would not make his judgment 

blind, 
He faced the spectres of the mind 
And laid them ; thus he came at length 

To find a stronger faith his own, 
And Power was with him in the 

night, 
Which makes the darkness and the 
light, 
And dwells not in the light alone, 

But in the darkness and the cloud, 
As over Sinai's peaks of old, 
While Israel made their gods of gold, 

Altho' the trumpet blew so loud. 

xcvn 
My love has talk'd with rocks and 
trees ; 
He finds on misty mountain -ground 
His own vast shadow glory-crown'd ; 
He sees himself in all he sees. 

Two partners of a married life — 
I look'd on these and thought of thee 
In vastness and in mystery, 

And of my spirit as of a wife. 

These two — they dwelt with eye on 
eye, 
Their hearts of old have beat in 

tune, 
Their meetings made December 
June, 
Their every parting was to die. 

Their love has never past away ; 
The days she never can forget 
Are earnest that he loves her yet, 

Whate'er the faithless people say. 

Her life is lone, he sits apart ; 
He loves her yet, she will not weep, 
Tho' rapt in matters dark and deep 

He seems to slight her simple heart. 

He thrids the labyrinth of the mind, 
He reads the secret of the star, 
He seems so near and yet so far, 

He looks so cold : she thinks him kind. 

She keeps the gift of years before, 
A wither'd violet is her bliss ; 



She knows not what his greatness is, 
For that, for all, she loves him more. ' 

For him she plays, to him she sings 
Of early faith and plighted vows ; 
She knows but matters of the house, 

And he, he knows a thousand things. 

Her faith is fixt and cannot move, 
She darkly feels him great and wise. 
She dwells on him with faithful eyes, 

6 1 cannot understand ; I love.' 

XCVIII 

You leave us : you will see the Rhine, 
And those fair hills I sail'd below, 
When I was there with him ; and go 

By summer belts of wheat and vine 

To where he breathed his latest breath, 
That city. All her splendor seems 
No livelier than the wisp that gleams 

On Lethe in the eyes of Death. 

Let her great Danube rolling fair 
Enwind her isles, unmark'd of me ; 
I have not seen, I will not see 

Vienna ; rather dream that there, 

A treble darkness, Evil haunts 

The birth, the bridal ; friend from 

friend 
Is oftener parted, fathers bend 

Above more graves, a thousand wants 

Gnarr at the heels of men, and prey 
By each cold hearth, and sadness 

flings 
Her shadow on the blaze of kings. 

And yet myself have heard him say, 

That not in any mother town 
With statelier progress to and fro 
The double tides of chariots flow 

By park and suburb under brown 

Of lustier leaves ; nor more content, 
He told me, lives in any crowd. 
When all is gay with lamps, and loud 

With sport and song, in booth and tent. 

Imperial halls, or open plain ; 

And wheels the circled dance, and 
breaks 

The rocket molten into flab 
Of crimson or in emerald rain. 



248 



IN MEMORIAM 



XCIX 

Risest thou thus, dim dawn, again, 
So loud with voices of the birds, 
So thick with lowings of the herds, 

Day, when I lost the flower of men ; 

Who tremblest thro' thy darkling red 
On yon swollen brook that bubbles 

fast 
By meadows breathing of the past, 

And woodlands holy to the dead ; 

Who murmurest in the foliaged eaves 
A song that slights the coming 

care, 
And Autumn laying here and there 

A fiery finger on the leaves ; 

Who wakenest with thy balmy breath 
To myriads on the genial earth, 
Memories of bridal, or of birth, 

And unto myriads more, of death. 

O, wheresoever those may be, 
Betwixt the slumber of the poles, 
To-day they count as kindred souls ; 

They know me not, but mourn with 
me. 



I climb the hill : from end to end 
Of all the landscape underneath, 
I find no place that does not breathe 

Some gracious memory of my friend ; 

No gray old grange, or lonely fold, 
Or low morass and whispering 

reed, 
Or simple stile from mead to mead, 

Or sheepwalk up the windy wold ; 

Nor hoary knoll of ash and haw 
That hears the latest linnet trill, 
Nor quarry trench'd along the hill 

And haunted by the wrangling daw ; 

Nor runlet tinkling from the rock ; 
Nor pastoral rivulet that swerves 
To left and right thro' meadowy 
curves, 

That feed the mothers of the flock ; 

But each has pleased a kindred eye, 
And each reflects a kindlier day ; 
And, leaving these, to pass away, 

I think once more he seems to die. 



ci 
Unwatch'd, the garden bough shall 
sway, 
The tender blossom flutter down, 
Unloved, that beech will gather 
brown, 
This maple burn itself away ; 

Unloved, the sunflower, shining fair, 
Ray round with flames her disk of 

seed, 
And many a rose-carnation feed 

With summer spice the humming air ; 

Unloved, by many a sandy bar. 

The brook shall babble down the 

plain, 
At noon or when the Lesser Wain 

Is twisting round the polar star ; 

Uncared for, gird the windy grove, 
And flood the haunts of hern and 

crake, 
Or into silver arrows break 

The sailing moon in creek and cove ; 

Till from the garden and the wild 

A fresh association blow, 

And year by year the landscape 
grow 
Familiar to the stranger's child ; 

As year by year the laborer tills 
His wonted glebe, or lops the glades, 
And year by year our memory fades 

From all the circle of the hills. 

en 
We leave 'the well-beloved place 

Where first we gazed upon the sky ; 

The roofs that heard our earliest cry 
Will shelter one of stranger race. 

We go, but ere we go from home, 
As down the garden-walks I move, 
Two spirits of a diverse love 

Contend for loving masterdom. 

One whispers, ' Here thy boyhood 
sung 
Long since its matin song, and heard 
The low love-language of the bird 

In native hazels tassel-hung.' 

The other answers, ' Yea, but here 
Thy feet have stray'd in after hours 






IN MEMORIAM 



249 



With thy lost friend among the 
bowers, 
And this hath made them trebly dear.' 

These two have striven half the day, 
And each prefers his separate claim, 
Poor rivals in a losing game, 

That will not yield each other way. 

I turn to go ; my feet are set 

To leave the pleasant fields and 

farms ; 
They mix in one another's arms 

To one pure image of regret. 



On that last night before we went 
From out the doors where I was 

bred, 
I dream'd a vision of the dead, 

Which left my after-morn content. 



Methought I dwelt within a hall, 
And maidens with me ; distant hills 
From hidden summits fed with rills 

A river sliding by the wall. 

The hall with harp and carol rang. 
They sang of what is wise and good 
And graceful. In the centre stood 

A statue veil'd, to which they sang ; 

And which, tho' veil'd, was known to 
me, . 
The shape of him I loved, and love 
For ever. Then flew in a dove 

And brought a summons from the sea ; 

And when they learnt that I must go, 
They wept and wail'd, but led the 

way 
To where a little shallop lay 

At anchor in the flood below ; 




• You will see the Rhine, 
And those fair hills I sail'd below ' 



25° 



IN MEMORIAM 



And on by many a level mead, 

And shadowing bluff that made the 

banks, 
We glided winding under ranks 

Of iris and the golden reed ; 

And still as vaster grew the shore 
And roll'd the floods in grander 

space, 
The maidens gather'd strength and 
grace 
And presence, lordlier than before ; 

And I myself, who sat apart 
And watch' d them, wax'd in every 

limb ; 
I felt the thews of Anakim, 

The pulses of a Titan's heart ; 

As one would sing the death of war, 
And one would chant the history 
Of that great race which is to be, 

And one the shaping of a star ; 

Until the forward -creeping tides 
Began to foam, and we to draw 
From deep to deep, to where we saw 

A great ship lift her shining sides. 

The man we loved was there on deck, 
But thrice as large as man he bent 
To greet us. Up the side I went, 

And fell in silence on his neck ; 

Whereat those maidens with one mind 
Bewail'd their lot ; I did them 

wrong : 
'We served thee here,' they said, 
' so long, 
And wilt thou leave us now behind ? ' 

So rapt I was, they could not win 
An answer from my lips, but he 
Replying, ' Enter likewise ye • 

And go with us : ' they enter' d in. 

And while the wind began to sweep 
A music out of sheet and shroud, 
We steer' d her toward a crimson 
cloud 

That landlike slept along the deep. 

civ 
The time draws near the birth of 
Christ ; 
The moon is hid, the night is still ; 



A single church below the hill 
Is pealing, folded in the mist. 

A single peal of bells below, 
That wakens at this hour of rest 
A single murmur in the breast, 

That these are not the bells I know. 

Like strangers' voices here they sound, 
In lands where not a memory strays, 
Nor landmark breathes of other 
days, 

But all is new unhallow'd ground. 

cv 
To-night ungather'd let us leave 
This laurel, let this holly stand : 
We live within the stranger's land, 
And strangely falls our Christmas- 
eve. 

Our father's dust is left alone 
And silent under other snows : 
There in due time the woodbine 
blows, 

The violet comes, but we are gone. 

No more shall wayward grief abuse 
The genial hour with mask and 

mime ; 
For change of place, like growth of 
time, 
Has broke the bond of dying use. 

Let cares that petty shadows cast, 
By which our lives are chiefly 

proved, 
A little spare the night I loved, 

And hold it solemn to the past. 

But let no footstep beat the floor, 
Nor bowl of wassail mantle warm ; 
For who would keep an ancient 
form 
Thro' which the spirit breathes no 
more ? 

Be neither song, nor game, nor feast ; 

Nor harp be touch'd, nor flute be 
blown ; 

No dance, no motion, save alone 
What lightens in the lucid East 

Of rising worlds by yonder wood. 
Long sleeps the summer in the 
seed ; 



IN MEMORIAM 



2 5* 



Run out your measured arcs, and 
lead 
The closing cycle rich in good. 

cvi 

Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky, 
The flying cloud, the frosty light : 
The year is dying in the night ; 

Ring out, wild bells, and let him die. 

Ring out the old, ring in the new, 
Ring, happy bells, across the snow : 
The year is going, let him go ; 

Ring out the false, ring in the true. 

Ring out the grief that saps the mind, 
For those that here we see no more ; 
Ring out the feud of rich and poor, 

Ring in redress to all mankind. 

Ring out a slowly dying cause, 
And. ancient forms of party strife ; 
Ring in the nobler modes of life, 

With sweeter manners, purer laws. 

Ring out the want, the care, the sin, 
The faithless coldness of the times ; 
Ring out, ring out my mournful 
rhymes, 

But ring the fuller minstrel in. 

Ring out false pride in place and blood, 
The civic slander and the spite ; 
Ring in the love of truth and right, 

Ring in the common love of good. 

Ring out old shapes of foul disease ; 

Ring out the narrowing lust of gold ; 

Ring out the thousand wars of old, 
Ring in the thousand years of peace. 

Ring in the valiant man and free, 
The larger heart, the kindlier hand ; 
Ring out the darkness of the land, 

Ring in the Christ that is to be. 

cvn 

It is the day when he was born, 
A bitter day that early sank 
Behind a purple-frosty bank 

Of vapor, leaving night forlorn. 

The time admits not flowers or leaves 
To deck the banquet. Fiercely flies 
The blast of North and East, and ice 

Makes daggers at the sharpen'd eaves, 



And bristles all the brakes and thorns 
To yon hard crescent, as she hangs 
Above the wood which grides and 
clangs 

Its leafless ribs and iron horns 

Together, in the drifts that pass 
To darken on the rolling brine 
That breaks the coast. But fetch 
the wine, 

Arrange the board and brim the glass ; 

Bring in great logs and let them lie, 
To make a solid core of heat ; 
Be cheerful -minded, talk and treat 

Of all things even as he were by ; 

We keep the day. With festal cheer, 
With books and music, surely we 
Will drink to him, whate'er he be, 

And sing the songs he loved to hear. 

CVIII 

I will not shut me from my kind, 
And, lest I stiffen into stone, 
I will not eat my heart alone, 

Nor feed with sighs a passing wind : 

What profit lies in barren faith, 
And vacant yearning, tho' with 

might 
To scale the heaven's highest height, 

Or dive below the wells of death ? 

What find I in the highest place, 
But mine own phantom chanting 

hymns ? 
And on the depths of death there 
swims 
The reflex of a human face. 

I '11 rather take what fruit may be 
Of sorrow under human skies : 
'T is held that sorrow makes us wise, 

Whatever wisdom sleep with thee. 



Heart-affluence in discursive talk 
From household fountains never 

dry ; 
The critic clearness of an eye 

That saw thro' all the Muses' walk ; 

Seraphic intellect and force 

To seize and throw the doubts of 



252 



IN MEMORIAM 



Impassion' d logic, which outran 
The hearer in its fiery course ; 

High nature amorous of the good, 
But touch'd with no ascetic gloom ; 
And passion pure in snowy bloom 

Thro' all the years of April blood ; 

A love of freedom rarely felt, 
Of freedom in her regal seat 
Of England ; not the schoolboy heat, 

The blind hysterics of the Celt ; 

And manhood fused with female grace 
In such a sort, the child would twine 
A trustful hand, unask'd, in thine, 

And find his comfort in thy face ; 

All these have been, and thee mine eyes 
Have look'd on : if they look'd in 

vain, 
My shame is greater who remain, 

Nor let thy wisdom make me wise. 

ex 

Thy converse drew us with delight, 
The men of rathe and riper years ; 
The feeble soul, a haunt of fears, 

Forgot his weakness in thy sight. 

On thee the loyal-hearted hung, 
The proud was half disarm'd of 

pride, 
Nor cared the serpent at thy side 

To flicker with his double tongue. 

The stern were mild when thou wert 

by, 
The flippant put himself to school 
And heard thee, and the brazen fool 
Was soften' d, and he knew not why ; 

While I, thy nearest, sat apart, 
And felt thy triumph was as mine ; 
And loved them more, that they 
were thine, 

The graceful tact, the Christian art ; 

Nor mine the sweetness or the skill, 
But mine the love that will not tire, 
And, born of love, the vague desire 

That spurs an imitative will. 



The churl in spirit, up or down 
Along the scale of ranks, thro' all, 



To him who grasps a golden ball, 
By blood a king, at heart a clown, — 

The churl in spirit, howe'er he veil 
His want in forms for fashion's sake, 
Will let his coltish nature break 

At seasons thro' the gilded pale ; 

For who can always act ? but he. 
To whom a thousand memories call, 
Not being less but more than all 

The gentleness he seem'd to be, 

Best seem'd the thing he was, and j oin'd 
Each office of the social hour 
To noble manners, as the flower 

And native growth of noble mind ; 

Nor ever narrowness or spite, 
Or villain fancy fleeting by, 
Drew in the expression of an. eye 

Where God and Nature met in light ; 

And thus he bore without abuse 
The grand old name of gentleman, 
Defamed by every charlatan, 

And soil'd with all ignoble use. 

cxn 

High' wisdom holds my wisdom less, 
That I, who gaze with temperate 

eyes 
On glorious insufficiencies, 

Set light by narrower perfectness. 

But thou, that fillest all the room 
Of all my love, art reason why 
I seem to cast a careless eye 

On souls, the lesser lords of doom. 

For what wert thou ? some novel power 
Sprang up for ever at a touch, 
And hope could never hope too 
much, 

In watching thee from hour to hour, 

Large elements in order brought, 
And tracts of calm from tempest 

made, 
And world-wide fluctuation sway'd 

In vassal tides that follow'd thought. 



'T is held that sorrow makes us wise ; 
Yet how much wisdom sleeps with 
thee 




IN MEMORIAM 



2 53 



Which not alone had guided me, 
But served the seasons that may rise ; 

For can I doubt, who knew thee keen 
In intellect, with force and skill 
To strive, to fashion, to fulfil — 

I doubt not what thou wouldst have 
been: 

A life in civic action warm, 
A soul on highest mission sent, 
A potent voice of Parliament, 

A pillar steadfast in the storm, 

Should licensed boldness gather force, 
Becoming, when the time has birth, 
A lever to uplift the earth 

And roll it in another course, 

With thousand shocks that come and 
go, 
With agonies, with energies, 
With overthrowings, and with cries, 

And undulations to and fro. 



Who 



CXIV 

not Knowledge ? 



Who 



loves 
shall rail 
Against her beauty ? May she mix 
With men and prosper! Who shall fix 
Her pillars ? Let her work prevail. 

But on her forehead sits a fire ; 
She sets her forward countenance 
And leaps into the future chance, 

Submitting all things to desire. 

Half-grown as yet, a child, and vain — 
She cannot fight the fear of death. 
What is she, cut from love and faith, 

But some wild Pallas from the brain 

Of demons ? fiery-hot to burst 
All barriers in her onward race 
For power. Let her know her place ; 

She is the second, not the first. 

A higher hand must make her mild, 
If all be not in vain, and guide 
Her footsteps, moving side by side 1 

With Wisdom, like the younger child ; 

For she is earthly of the mind, 
But Wisdom heavenly of the soul. 
O friend, who earnest to thy goal 

So early, leaving me behind, 



I would the great world grew like 
thee, 
Who grewest not alone in power 
And knowledge, but by year and 
hour 
In reverence and in charity. 



Now fades the last long streak of 
snow, 
Now burgeons every maze of quick 
About the flowering squares, and 
thick 
By ashen roots the violets blow. 



Now 



the woodland loud and 



rings 
long, 

The distance takes a lovelier hue, 
And drown'd in yonder living blue 
The lark becomes a sightless song. 

Now dance the lights on lawn and 
lea, 
The flocks are whiter down the vale, 
And milkier every milky sail 

On winding stream or distant sea ; 

Where now the seamew pipes, or dives 
In yonder greening gleam, and fly 
The happy birds, that change their 
sky 
To build and brood, that live their 
lives 

From land to land ; and in my breast 
Spring wakens too, and my regret 
Becomes an April violet, 

And buds and blossoms like the rest. 

cxvi 
Is it, then, regret for buried time 
That keenlier in sweet April wakes. 
And meets the year, and gives and 
takes 
The colors of the crescent prime ? 

Not all : the songs, the stirring air. 
The life re-orient out of dust, 
Cry thro' the sense to hearten trust 

In that which made the world so fair. 

Not all regret : the face will shine 
Upon me, while I muse alone, 
And that dear voice. I onee have 
known. 

Still speak to me of me and mine. 



254 



IN MEMORIAM 



Yet less of sorrow lives in me 

For days of happy commune dead, 
Less yearning for the friendship fled 

Than some strong bond which is to be. 



O days and hours, your work is this, 
To hold me from my proper place, 
A little while from his embrace, 

For fuller gain of after bliss ; 

That out of distance might ensue 
Desire of nearness doubly sweet, 
And unto meeting, when we meet, 

Delight a hundredfold accrue, 

For every grain* of sand that runs, 
And every span of shade that steals, 
And every kiss of toothed wheels, 

And all the courses of the suns. 

CXVIII 

Contemplate all this work of Time, 
The giant laboring in his youth ; 
Nor dream of human love and truth, 

As dying Nature's earth and lime ; 

But trust that those we call the dead 
Are breathers of an ampler day 
For ever nobler ends. They say, 

The solid earth whereon we tread 

In tracts of fluent heat began, 
And grew to seeming-random forms, 
The seeming prey of cyclic storms, 

Till at the last arose the man ; 

Who throve and branch' d from clime 
to clime, 
The herald of a higher race, 
And of himself in higher place, 

If so he type this work of time 

Within himself, from more to more ; 
Or, crown'd with attributes of woe 
Like glories, move his course, and 
show 

That life is not as idle ore, 

But iron dug from central gloom, 
And heated hot with burning fears, 
And dipt in baths of hissing tears, 

And batter'd with the shocks of doom 

To shape and use. Arise and fly 
The reeling Faun, the sensual feast ; 



Move upward, working out the 
beast, 
And let the ape and tiger die. 



Doors, where my heart was used to 
beat 
So quickly, not as one that weeps 
I come once more ; the city sleeps ; 

I smell the meadow in the street ; 

I hear a chirp of birds ; I see 
Betwixt the black fronts long- with- 
drawn 
A light-blue lane of early dawn, 

And think of early days and thee, 

And bless thee, for thy lips are 
bland, 
And bright the friendship of thine 

eye; 
And in my thoughts with scarce a 
sigh 
I take the pressure of thine hand. 



I trust I have not wasted breath : 
I think we are not w T holly brain, 
Magnetic mockeries ; not in vain, 

Like Paul with beasts, I fought with 
Death ; 

Not only cunning casts in clay : 
Let Science prove we are, and then 
What matters Science unto men, 

At least to me ? I would not stay. 

Let him, the wiser man who springs 
Hereafter, up from childhood shape 
His action like the greater ape, 

But I was born to other things. 

CXXI 

Sad Hesper o'er the buried sun 
And ready, thou, to die with him, 
Thou watchest all things ever dim 

And dimmer, and a glory done. 

The team is loosen' d from the wain, 
The boat is drawn upon the shore ; 
Thou listenest to the closing door, 

And life is darken'd in the brain. 

Bright Phosphor, fresher for the night, 
By thee the world's great work is 
heard 



I 



IN MEMORIAM 



2 5S 




' There rolls the deep ' 



Beginning, and the wakeful bird ; 
Behind thee comes the greater light. 

The market boat is on the stream, 
And voices hail it from the brink ; 
Thou hear'st the village hammer 
clink, 

And see' st the moving of the team. 

Sweet Hesper-Phosphor, double name 
For what is one, the first, the last, 
Thou, like my present and my 
past, 
Thy place is changed ; thou art the 
same. 

cxxn 
O, wast thou with me, dearest, then, 
While I rose up against my doom, 
And yearn'd to burst the folded 
gloom, 
To bare the eternal heavens again, 

To feel once more, in placid awe, 
The strong imagination roll 
A sphere of stars about my soul, 

In all her motion one with law ? 



If thou wert with me, and the grave 
Divide us not, be with me now, 
And enter in at breast and brow, 

Till all my blood, a fuller wave, 

Be quicken'd with a livelier breath, 
And like an inconsiderate boy, 
As in the former flash of joy, 

I slip the thoughts of life and death ; 

And all the breeze of Fancy blows, 
And every dewdrop paints a bow, 
The wizard lightnings deeply glow, 

And every thought breaks out a rose. 

CXXIIT 

There rolls the deep where grew the 
tree. 
O earth, what changes hast thou 

seen! 
There where the long street roars 
hath been 
The stillness of the central sea, 

The hills are shadows, and they flow 
From form to form, and nothing 
stands ; 



256 



IN MEMORIAM 



They melt like mist, the solid lands, 
Like clouds they shape themselves 
and go. 

But in my spirit will I dwell, 

And dream my dream, and hold it 

true ; 
For tho' my lips may breathe adieu, 

I cannot think the thing farewell. 

cxxiv 
That which we dare invoke to bless ; 
Our dearest faith ; our ghastliest 

doubt ; 
He, They, One, All ; within, with- 
out ; 
The Power in darkness whom we 
guess, — 

I found Him not in world or sun, 
Or eagle's wing, or insect's eye, 
Nor thro' the questions men may 
try, 

The petty cobwebs we have spun. 

If e'er when faith had fallen asleep, 
I heard a voice, 'believe no more,' 
And heard an ever-breaking shore 

That tumbled in the Godless deep, 

A warmth within the breast would 
melt 
The freezing reason's colder part, 
And like a man in wrath the heart 

Stood up and answer'd, 'I have felt.' 

No, like a child in doubt and fear : 
But that blind clamor made me wise ; 
Then was I as a child that cries, 

But, crying, knows his father near ; 

And what I am beheld again 

What is, and no man understands : 
And out of darkness came the hands 

That reach thro' nature, moulding men. 

cxxv 
Whatever I have said or sung, 

Some bitter notes my harp would 

give, 
Yea, tho' there often seem'd to live 
A contradiction on the tongue, 

Yet Hope had never lost her youth, 
She did but look through dimmer 
eyes ; 



Or Love but play'd with gracious 
lies, 
Because he felt so fix'd in truth ; 

And if the song were full of care, 
He breathed the spirit of the song : 
And if the words were sweet and 
strong 

He set his royal signet there ; 

Abiding with me till I sail 

To seek thee on the mystic deeps, 
And this electric force, that keeps 

A thousand pulses dancing, fail. 

CXXVI 

Love is and was my lord and king, 
And in his presence I attend 
To hear the tidings of my friend, 

Which every hour his couriers bring. 

Love is and was my king and lord, 
And will be, tho' as yet I keep 
Within the court on earth, and sleep 

Encompass'd by his faithful guard, 

And hear at times a sentinel 

Who moves about from place to 
place, 

And whispers to the worlds of space, 
In the deep night, that all is well. 

CXXVII 

And all is well, tho' faith and form 
Be sunder' d in the night of fear ; 
Well roars the storm to those that 
hear 

A deeper voice across the storm, 

Proclaiming social truth shall spread, 
And justice, even tho' thrice again 
The red fool-fury of the Seine 

Should pile her barricades with dead. 

But ill for him that wears a crown, 
And him, the lazar, in his rags ! 
They tremble, the sustaining crags ; 

The spires of ice are toppled down. 

And molten up, and roar in flood ; 
The fortress crashes from on high, 
The brute earth lightens to the sky, 

And the great JE011 sinks in blood, 

And compass'd by the fires of hell ; 
While thou, dear spirit, happy star. 



IN MEMORIAM 



257 






O'erlook'st the tumult from afar, 
And smilest, knowing all is well. 

CXXVIII 

The love that rose on stronger wings, 
Unpalsied when he met with Death, 
Is comrade of the lesser faith 

That sees the course of human things. 

No doubt vast eddies in the flood 
Of onward time shall yet be made, 
And throned races may degrade ; 

Yet, O ye mysteries of good, 

Wild Hours that fly with Hope and 
Fear, 
If all your office had to do 
With old results that look like new — 

If this were all your mission here, 

To draw, to sheathe a useless sword, 
To fool the crowd with glorious lies, 
To cleave a creed in sects and cries, 

To change the bearing of a word, 

To shift an arbitrary power, 
To cramp the student at his desk, 
To make old bareness picturesque 

And tuft with grass a feudal tower, 

Why, then my scorn might well de- 
scend 
On you and yours. I see in part 
That all, as in some piece of art, 

Is toil cooperant to an end. 



Dear friend, far off, my lost desire, 
So far, so near in woe and weal, 

loved the most, when most I feel 
There is a lower and a higher ; 

Known and unknown, human, divine ; 

Sweet human hand and lips and eye ; 

Dear heavenly friend that canst not 
die, 
Mine, mine, for ever, ever mine ; 

Strange friend, past, present, and to be; 

Loved deeplier, darklier understood ; 

Behold, I dream a dream of good, 
And mingle all the world with thee. 

cxxx 

Thy voice is on the rolling air ; 

1 hear thee where the waters run ; 



Thou standest in the rising sun, 
And in the setting thou art fair. 

What art thou then ? I cannot guess ; 
But tho' I seem in star and flower 
To feel thee some diffusive power, 

I do not therefore love thee less. 

My love involves the love before ; 

My love is vaster passion now ; 

Tho' mix'd with God and Nature 
thou, 
I seem to love thee more and more. 

Far off thou art, but ever nigh ; 

I have thee still, and I rejoice ; 

I prosper, circled with thy voice ; 
I shall not lose thee tho' I die. 

cxxxi 
O living will that shalt endure 
When all that seems shall suffer 

shock, 
Rise in the spiritual rock, 
Flow thro' our deeds and make them 
pure, 

That we may lift from out of dust 
A voice as unto him that hears, 
A cry above the conquer'd years 

To one that with us works, and 
trust, 

With faith that comes of self-control 
The truths that never can be proved 
Until we close with all we loved, 

And all we flow from, soul in soul. 



O true and tried, so well and long, 
Demand not thou a marriage lay ; 
In that it is thy marriage day 

Is music more than any song. 

Nor have I felt so much of bliss 
Since first he told me that he loved 
A daughter of our house, nor proved 

Since that dark day a day like this : 

Tho' I since then have numbered o'er 
Some thrice three years ; they went 

and came, 
Remade the blood and changed the 
frame, 
And yet is love not less, but more ; 



2 5 8 



IN MEMORIAM 



No longer caring to embalm 
In dying songs a dead regret, 
But like a statue solid-set, 

And moulded in colossal calm. 

Regret is dead, but love is more 
Than in the summers that are flown, 
For I myself with these have grown 

To something greater than before ; 

Which makes appear the songs I made 
As echoes out of weaker times, 
As half but idle brawling rhymes, 

The sport of random sun and shade. 

But where is she, the bridal flower, 
That must be made a wife ere noon ? 
She enters, glowing like the moon 

Of Eden on its bridal bower. 

On me she bends her blissful eyes 
And then on thee ; they meet thy look 
And brighten like the star that shook 

Betwixt the palms of Paradise. 

O, when her life was yet in bud, 
He too foretold the perfect rose. 
For thee she grew, for thee she grows 

For ever, and as fair as good. 

And thou art worthy, full of power ; 
As gentle ; liberal-minded, great, 
Consistent ; wearing all that weight 

Of learning lightly like a flower. 

But now set out : the noon is near, 
And I must give away the bride ; 
She fears not, or with thee beside 

And me behind her, will not fear. 

For I that danced her on my knee, 
That watch'd her on her nurse's arm, 
That shielded all her life from harm, 

At last must part with her to thee ; 

Now waiting to be made a wife, 
Her feet, my darling, on the dead ; 
Their pensive tablets round her head, 

And the most living words of life 

Breathed in her ear. The ring is on, 
The ' Wilt thou ? ' answer'd, and 

again 
The ' Wilt thou ? ' ask'd, till out of 
twain 
Her sweet ' I will ' has made you one. 



Now sign your names, which shall be 
read, 
Mute symbols of a joyful morn, 
By village eyes as yet unborn. 

The names are signed, and overhead 

Begins the clash and clang that tells 
The joy to every wandering breeze ; 
The blind wall rocks, and on the 
trees 

The dead leaf trembles to the bells. 

O happy hour, and happier hours 
Await them. Many a merry face 
Salutes them — maidens of the place, 

That pelt us in the porch with flowers. 

O happy hour, behold the bride 
With him to whom her hand I gave. 
They leave the porch, they pass the 
grave 

That has to-day its sunny side. 

To-day the grave is bright for me, 
For them the light of life increased, 
Who stay to share the morning feast, 

Who rest to-night beside the sea. 

Let all my genial spirits advance 
To meet and greet a whiter sun ; 
My drooping memory will not shun 

The foaming grape of eastern France. 

It circles round, and fancy plays, 
And hearts are warm'd and faces 

bloom, 
As drinking health to bride and 
groom 
We wish them store of happy days. 

Nor count me all to blame if I 
Conjecture of a stiller guest, 
Perchance, perchance, among the 
rest, 

And, tho' in silence, wishing joy. 

But they must go, the time draws on, 
And those white - favor'd horses 

wait : 
They rise, but linger ; it is late ; 

Farewell, we kiss, and they are gone. 

A shade falls on us like the dark 
From little cloudlets on the grass, 
But sweeps away as out we pass 

To range the woods, to roam the park, 



IN MEMORIAM 



*59 



Discussing how their courtship grew, 
And talk of others that are wed, 
And how she look'd, and what he 
said, 

And back we come at fall of dew. 

Again the feast, the speech, the glee, 
The shade of passing thought, the 

wealth 
Of words and wit, the double health, 
The crowning cup, the three-times- 
three, 

And last the dance ; — till I retire. 
Dumb is that tower which spake so 

loud, 
And high in heaven the streaming 
cloud. 
And on the downs a rising fire : 

And rise, O moon, from yonder down, 
Till over down and over dale 
All night the shining vapor sail 

And pass the silent-lighted town, 

The white-faced halls, the glancing 
rills, 
And catch at every mountain head, 
And o'er the friths that branch and 
spread 
Their sleeping silver thro' the hills ; 

And touch with shade the bridal doors, 
With tender gloom the roof, the 
wall • 



And breaking let the splendor fall 
To spangle all the happy shores 

By which they rest, and ocean sounds, 
And, star and system rolling past, 
A soul shall draw from out the vast 

And strike his being into bounds, 

And, moved thro' life of lower phase, 
Result in man, be born and think, 
And act and love, a closer link 

Betwixt us and the crowning race 

Of those that, eye to eye, shall look 
On knowledge ; under whose com- 
mand 
Is Earth and Earth's, and in their 
hand 
Is Nature like an open book ; 

No longer half -akin to brute, 
For all we thought and loved and 

did, 
And hoped, and suffer'd, is but seed 

Of what in them is flower and fruit ; 

Whereof the man that with me trod 
This planet was a noble type 
Appearing ere the times were ripe, 

That friend of mine who lives in God, 

That God, which ever lives and loves, 
One God, one law, one element, 
And one far-off divine event, 

To which the whole creation moves. 




' I hate the dreadful hollow behind the little wood ' 



MAUD AND OTHER POEMS 



MAUD ; A MONODRAMA 

PART I 



I hate the dreadful hollow behind 

the little wood ; 
Its lips in the field above are dabbled 

with blood-red heath. 
The red-ribb'd ledges drip with a silent 

horror of blood, 
And Echo there, whatever is ask'dher, 

answers 'Death.' 



For there in the ghastly pit long since 

a body was found. 
His who had given me life — O father ! 

O God ! was it well ? — 
Mangled, and flatten'd, and crush'd, 

and dinted into the ground ; 
There yet lies the rock that fell with 

him when he fell. 

in 
Did he fling himself down? who 
knows ? for a vast speculation 
had fail'd, 






MAUD 



261 



And ever he mutter'd and madden' d, 
and ever wann'd with despair, 10 

And out he walk'd when the wind like 
a broken worldling wail'd, 

And the flying gold of the ruin'd wood- 
lands drove thro' the air. 

IV 

I remember the time, for the roots of 

my hair were stirr'd 
By a shuffled step, by a dead weight 

traiPd, by a whisper'd fright, 
And my pulses closed their gates with 

a shock on my heart as I heard 
The shrill-edged shriek of a mother 

divide the shuddering night. 



Villainy somewhere ! whose ? One 

says, we are villains all. 
Not he ; his honest fame should at least 

by me be maintained ; 
But that old man, now lord of the 

broad estate and the Hall, 
Dropt off gorged from a scheme that 

had left us flaccid and drain'd. 20 

VI 

Why do they prate of the blessings of 

peace ? we have made them a 

curse, 
Pickpockets, each hand lusting for all 

that is not its own ; 
And lust of gain, in the spirit of Cain, 

is it better or worse 
Than the heart of the citizen hissing 

in war on his own hearthstone ? 

VII 

But these are the days of advance, the 

works of the men of mind, 
When who but a fool would have faith 

in a tradesman's ware or his 

word? 
Is it peace or war ? Civil war, as I 

think, and that of a kind 
The viler, as underhand, not openly 

bearing the sword. 

VIII 

Sooner or later I too may passively 

take the print 
Of the golden age — why not ? I have 

neither hope nor trust ; 30 

May make my heart as a millstone, set 

my face as a flint, 



Cheat and be cheated, and die — who 
knows ? we are ashes and dust. 

IX 

Peace sitting under her olive, and 
slurring the days gone by, 

When the poor are hovell'd and hus- 
tled together, each sex, like 
swine, 

When only the ledger lives, and when 
only not all men lie ; 

Peace in her vineyard — yes ! — but a 
company forges the wine. 



And the vitriol madness flushes up in 

the ruffian's head, 
Till the filthy by-lane rings to the yell 

of the trampled wife, 
And chalk and alum and plaster are 

sold to the poor for bread, 
And the spirit of murder works in the 

very means of life, 4 o 



And Sleep must lie down arm'd, for 

the villainous centre-bits 
Grind on the wakeful ear in the hush 

of the moonless nights, 
While another is cheating the sick of 

a few last gasps, as he sits 
To pestle a poison'd poison behind his 

crimson lights. 



When a Mammonite mother kills her 
babe for a burial fee, 

And Timour-Mammon grins on a pile 
of children's bones, 

Is it peace or war ? better, war ! loud 
war by land and by sea, 

War with a thousand battles, and shak- 
ing a hundred thrones ! 

XIII 

For I trust if an enemy's fleet came 

yonder round by the hill, 
And the rushing battle-boll Bang from 

the three-decker out of the 

foam, 
That the smooth-faced, snub-nosed 

rogue would leap from his 

counter and till. 
And strike, if he could, were it but 

With his cheating yardwaml, 

home. — 



262 



MAUD AND OTHER POEMS 



XIY 

What ! am I raging alone as my father 

raged in his mood ? 
Must I too creep to the hollow and 

dash myself down and die 
Eather than hold by the law that I 

made, nevermore to brood 
On a horror of shatter' d limbs and a 

wretched swindler's lie ? 



Would there be sorrow for me ? there 

was love in the passionate shriek, 
Love for the silent thing that had made 

false haste to the grave — 
Wrapt in a cloak, as I saw him, and 

thought he would rise and speak 
And rave at the lie and the liar, ah 

God, as he used to rave. 60 



I am sick of the Hall and the hill, 

I am sick of the moor and the 

main. 
Why should I stay? can a sweeter 

chance ever come to me here ? 
O, having the nerves of motion as 

well as the nerves of pain, 
Were it not wise if I fled from the 

place and the pit and the fear ? 



Workmen up at the Hall ! — they are 

coming back from abroad ; 
The dark old place will be gilt by the 

touch of a millionaire. 
I have heard, I know not whence, of 

the singular beauty of Maud ; 
I play'd with the girl when a child ; 

she promised then to be fair. 

XVIII 

Maud, with her venturous climbings 
and tumbles and childish es- 
capes, 

Maud, the delight of the village, the 
ringing joy of the Hall, 70 

Maud, with her sweet purse-mouth 
when my father dangled the 
grapes, 

Maud, the beloved of my mother, the 
moon-faced darling of all, — 



What is she now ? My dreams are bad. 
She may bring me a curse. 



No, there is fatter game on the moor ; 

she will let me alone. 
Thanks; for the fiend best knows 

whether woman or man be the 

worse. 
I will bury myself in myself, and the 

Devil may pipe to his own. 



II 



Long have I sigh'd for a calm ; 

God grant I mav find it at 

last ! 
It will never be broken by Maud ; she 

has neither savor nor salt, 
But a cold and clear-cut face, as I 

found when her carriage past, 
Perfectly beautiful ; let it be granted 

her ; where is the fault ? 80 

All that I saw — for her eyes were 

downcast, not to be seen — 
Faultily faultless, icily regular, splen- 
didly null, 
Dead perfection, no more ; nothing 

more, if it had not been 
For a chance of travel, a paleness, an 

hour's defect of the rose, 
Or an underlip, you may call it a little 

too ripe, too full" 
Or the least little delicate aquiline 

curve in a sensitive nose, 
From which I escaped heart-free, with 

the least little touch of spleen. 



Ill 

Cold and clear-cut face, why come you 
so cruelly meek, 

Breaking a slumber in which all 
spleenful folly was drown'd ? 

Pale with the golden beam of an eye- 
lash dead on the cheek, " 90 

Passionless, pale, cold face, star-sweet 
on a gloom profound ; 

Womanlike, taking revenge too deep 
for a transient wrong 

Done but in thought to your beauty, 
and ever as pale as before 

Growing and fading and growing 
upon me without a sound, 

Luminous, gemlike, ghostlike, death- 
like, half the night long 

Growing and fading and growing, till 
I could bear it no more, 




MAUD 



263 



But arose, and all by myself in my 
own dark garden ground, 

Listening now to the tide in its broad- 
flung shipwrecking roar, 

Now to the scream of a madden' d 
beach dragg'd down by the 
wave, 

Walk'd in a wintry wind by a ghastly 
glimmer, and found 100 

The shining daffodil dead, and Orion 
low in his grave. 

IY 



A million emeralds break from the 

ruby- budded lime 
In the little grove where I sit — ah, 

wherefore cannot I be 
Like things of the season gay, like the 

bountiful season bland, 
When the far-off sail is blown by the 

breeze of a softer clime, 
Half -lost in the liquid azure bloom of 

a crescent of sea, 
The silent sapphire-spangled marriage 

ring of the land ? 



Below me, there, is the village, and 

looks how quiet and small ! 
And yet bubbles o'er like a city, with 

gossip, scandal, and spite ; 
And Jack on his ale-house bench has 

as many lies as a Czar ; no 

And here on the landward side, 

by a red rock, glimmers the 

Hall; 
And up in the high Hall-garden I see 

her pass like a light ; 
But sorrow seize me if ever that light 

be my leading star ! 



When have I bow'd to her father, the 
wrinkled head of the race ? 

I met her to-day with her brother, but 
not to her brother I bow'd ; 

I bow'd to his lady-sister as she rode 
by on the moor, 

But the fire of a foolish pride flash'd 
over her beautiful face. 

O child, you wrong your beauty, be- 
lieve it, in being so proud ; 

Your father has wealth well-gotten, 
and I am nameless and poor. 



I keep but a man and a maid, ever 

ready to slander and steal ; 120 
I know it, and smile a hard-set smile, 

like a stoic, or like 
A wiser epicurean, and let the world 

have its way 
For nature is one with rapine, a harm 

no preacher can heal ; 
The Mayfly is torn by the swallow, 

the sparrow spear'd by the 

shrike, 
And the whole little wood where I sit 

is a world of plunder and prey. 



We are puppets, Man in his pride, 

and Beauty fair in her flower ; 
Do we move ourselves, or are moved 

by an unseen hand at a game 
That pushes us off from the board, 

and others ever succeed ? 
Ah yet, we cannot be kind to each 

other here for an hour ; 
We whisper, and hint, and chuckle, 

and grin at a brother's shame ; 
However we brave it out, we men are 

a little breed. 131 

VI 

A monstrous eft was of old the lord 

and master of earth, 
For him did his high sun flame, and 

his river billowing ran, 
And he felt himself in his force to be 

Nature's crowning race. 
As nine months go to the shaping an 

infant ripe for his birth, 
So many a million of ages have gone 

to the making of man : 
He now is first, but is he the last ? is 

he not too base ? 

VII 

The man of science himself is fonder 

of glory, and vain, 
An eye well-practised in nature, a 

spirit bounded and poor ; 
The passionate heart of the poet is 

whhTd into folly and vice. 140 
I would not marvel at either, but keep 

a temperate brain ; 
For not to desire or admire, if a man 

could learn it. were more 
Than to walk all day like the sultan 

of old in a garden of spice. 



264 



MAUD AND OTHER POEMS 



VIII 

For the drift of the Maker is dark, an 

Isis hid by the veil. 
Who knows the ways of the world, 

how God will bring them 

about ? 
Our planet is one, the suns are many, 

the world is wide. 
Shall I weep if a Poland fall ? shall I 

shriek if a Hungary fail ? 
Or an infant civilization be ruled with 

rod or with knout ? 
I have not made the world, and He 

that made it will guide. 

IX 

Be mine a philosopher's life in the 
quiet woodland ways, 150 

Where if I cannot be gay let a pas- 
sionless peace be my lot, 

Far-off from the clamor of liars belied 
in the hubbub of lies ; 

From the long-neck'd geese of the 
world that are ever hissing dis- 
praise 

Because their natures are little, and, 
whether he heed it or not, 

Where each man walks with his head 
in a cloud of poisonous flies. 



And most of all would I flee from the 

cruel madness of love, 
The honey of poison-flowers and all 

the measureless ill. 
Ah, Maud, you milk-white fawn, you 

are all unmeet for a wife. 
Your mother is mute in her grave as 

her image in marble above ; 
Your father is ever in London, you 

wander about at your will ; 160 
You have but fed on the roses and 

lain in the lilies of life. 

V 

1 
A voice by the cedar tree 
In the meadow under the Hall ! 
She is singing an air that is known to 

me, 
A passionate ballad gallant and gay, 
A martial song like a trumpet's call ! 
Singing alone in the morning of life, 
In the happy morning of life and of 

May, 



Singing of men that in battle array, 
Keady in heart and ready in hand, 170 
March with banner and bugle and 

fife 
To the death, for their native land. 



Maud with her exquisite face, 

And wild voice pealing up to the 
sunny sky, 

And feet like sunny gems on an Eng- 
lish green, 

Maud in the light of her youth and 
her grace, 

Singing of Death, and of Honor that 
cannot die, 

Till I well could weep for a time so 
sordid and mean, 

And myself so languid and base. 



Silence, beautiful voice ! 180 

Be still, for you only trouble the 

mind 
With a joy in which I cannot rejoice, 
A glory I shall not find. 
Still ! I will hear you no more, 
For your sweetness hardly leaves me 

a choice 
But to move to the meadow and fall 

before 
Her feet on the meadow grass, and 

adore, 
Not her, who is neither courtly nor 

kind, 
Not her, not her, but a voice. 

VI 



Morning arises stormy and pale, 190 
No sun, but a wannish glare 
In fold upon fold of hueless cloud ; 
And the budded peaks of the wood 

are bow'd, 
Caught, and cuff'd by the gale : 
I had fancied it would be fair. 

11 
Whom but Maud should I meet 
Last night, when the sunset burn'd 
On the blossom' d gable-ends 
At the head of the village street, 
Whom but Maud should I meet ? 200 
And she touch'd my hand with a smile 
so sweet, 



MAUD 



265 



She made me divine amends 
For a courtesy not returned. 



And thus a delicate spark 
Of glowing and growing light 
Thro' the livelong hours of the dark 
Kept itself warm in the heart of my 

dreams, 
Ready to burst in a color'd flame ; 
Till at last, when the morning came 
In a cloud, it faded, and seems 210 
But an ashen-gray delight. 

IV 

What if with her sunny hair. 

And smile as sunny as cold, 

She meant to weave me a snare 

Of some coquettish deceit, 

Cleopatra-like as of old 

To entangle me when we met, 

To have her lion roll in a silken net 

And fawn at a victor's feet. 



Ah, what shall I be at fifty 220 

Should Nature keep me alive, 

If I find the world so bitter 

When I am but twenty-five ? 

Yet, if she were not a cheat, 

If Maud were all that she seem'd, 

And her smile were all that I dream'd, 

Then the world were not so bitter 

But a smile could make it sweet. 

VI 

What if, tho' her eye seem'd full 
Of a kind intent to me, 230 

What if that dandy-despot, he, 
That jewell'd mass of millinery, 
That oil'd and curl'd Assyrian bull 
Smelling of musk and of insolence, 
Her brother, from whom I keep 

aloof, 
Who wants the finer politic sense 
To mask, tho' but in his own behoof, 
With a glassy smile his brutal scorn — 
What if he had told her yestermorn 
How prettily for his own sweet 

sake 240 

A face of tenderness might be feign'd, 
And a moist mirage in desert eyes, 
That so, when the rotten hustings 

shake 
In another month to his brazen lies, 
A wretched vote may be gain'd ? 



For a raven ever croaks, at my 

side, 
Keep watch and ward, keep watch 

and ward, 
Or thou wilt prove their tool. 
Yea, too, myself from myself I guard, 
For often a man's own angry pride 250 
Is cap and bells for a fool. 



Perhaps the smile and tender tone 
Came out of her pitying womanhood, 
For am I not, am I not, here alone 
So many a summer since she died, 
My mother, who was so gentle and 

good? 
Living alone in an empty house, 
Here half -hid in the gleaming wood, 
Where I hear the dead at midday 

moan, 
And the shrieking rush of the wain- 
scot mouse, 260 
And my own sad name in corners 

cried, 
When the shiver of dancing leaves is 

thrown 
About its echoing chambers wide, 
Till a morbid hate and horror have 

grown 
Of a world in which I have hardly 

mixt, 
And a morbid eating lichen fixt 
On a heart half -turn' d to stone. 

IX 

heart of stone, are you flesh, and 

caught 
By that you swore to withstand ? 
For what was it else within me 

wrought 270 

But, I fear, the new strong wine of 

love, 
That made my tongue to stammer and 

trip 
When I saw the treasured splendor, 

her hand, 
Come sliding out of her sacred glove, 
And the sunlight broke from her lip V 

x 

1 have play'd with her when a 

child ; 
She remembers it now we meet. 
Ah, well, well, well, I may be beguiled 
By some coquettish deceit. 



266 



MAUD AND OTHER POEMS 



Yet, if she were not a cheat, 28c 

If Maud were all that she seem'd, 
And her smile had all that I dream' d, 
Then the world were not so bitter 
But a smile could make it sweet. 

VII 



Did I hear it half in a doze 

Long since, I know not where ? 

Did I dream it an hour ago, 
When asleep in this arm-chair ? 



Men were drinking together, 

Drinking and talking of me : 290 

' Well, if it prove a girl, the boy 
Will have plenty ; so let it be.' 

in 
Is it an echo of something 

Read with a boy's delight, 
Viziers nodding together 

In some Arabian night ? 



Strange, that I hear two men, 
Somewhere, talking of me : 

1 Well, if it prove a girl, my boy 
Will have plenty ; so let it be.' 300 

VIII 

She came to the village church, 
And sat by a pillar alone ; 
An angel watching an urn 
Wept over her, carved in stone ; 
And once, but once, she lifted her 

eyes, 
And suddenly, sweetly, strangely 

blush'd 
To find they were met by my own ; 
And suddenly, sweetly, my heart beat 

stronger 
And thicker, until I heard no longer 
The snowy -banded, dilettante, 310 

Delicate-handed priest intone ; 
And thought, is it pride ? and mused 

and sigh'd, 
'No surely, now it cannot be pride.' 

IX 

I was walking a mile, 

More than a mile from the shore, 



The sun look'd out with a smile 
Betwixt the cloud and the moor : 
And riding at set of day 
Over the dark moor land, 
Rapidly riding far away, 320 

She waved to me with her hand. 
There were two at her side, 
Something flash'd in the sun, 
Down by the hill I saw them ride, 
In a moment they were gone ; 
Like a sudden spark 
Struck vainly in the night, 
Then returns the dark 
With no more hope of light. 



Sick, am I sick of a jealous dread ? 330 
Was not one of the two at her side 
This new-made lord, whose splendor 

plucks 
The slavish hat from the villager's 

head? 
Whose old grandfather has lately died, 
Gone to a blacker pit, for whom 
Grimy nakedness dragging his trucks 
And laying his trams in a poison' d 

gloom 
Wrought, till he crept from a gutted 

mine 
Master of half a servile shire, 339 

And left his coal all turn'd into gold 
To a grandson, first of his noble line, 
Rich in the grace all women desire, 
Strong in the power that all men 

adore, 
And simper and set their voices lower, 
And soften as if to a girl, and hold 
Awe-stricken breaths at a work divine, 
Seeing his gewgaw castle shine, 
New as his title, built last year, 
There amid perky larches and pine, 
And over the sullen-purple moor — 350 
Look at it — pricking a cockney ear. 



What, has he found my jewel out ? 
For one of the two that rode at her side 
Bound for the Hall, I am sure was 

he; 
Bound for the Hall, and I think for a 

bride. 
Blithe would her brother's acceptance 

be. 
Maud could be gracious too, no doubt, 




MAUD 



267 




' She came to the village church, 
And sat by a pillar alone ' 



To a lord, a captain, a padded shape, 
A bought commission, a waxen face, 
A rabbit mouth that is ever agape — 
Bought ? what is it he cannot buy ? 361 
And therefore splenetic, personal, base, 
A wounded thing with a rancorous 

cry, 
At war with myself and a wretched 

race, 
Sick, sick to the heart of life, am I. 



in 



Last 



week came one to the county 

town, 
To preach our poor little army down, 
And play the game of the despot 

kings, 



Tho' the state has done it and thrice 

as well. 
This broad-brimm'd hawker of holy 

things, 370 

Whose ear is cramm'd with his cotton, 

and rings 
Even in dreams to the chink of his 

pence, 
This huckster put down war ! can he 

tell 
Whether war be a cause or a conse 

que nee ? 
Put down the passions that make earth 

hell ! 
Down with ambition, avarice, pride, 
Jealousy, down ! cutoff from the mind 
The bitter springs of anger and fear ! 



268 



MAUD AND OTHER POEMS 



Down too, down at your own fireside, 


Maud, Maud, Maud, Maud, 


With the evil tongue and the evil 


They were crying and calling. 


ear, 380 




For each is at war with mankind ! 


11 




Where was Maud ? in our wood ; 


IV 


And I — who else ? — was with 


I wish I could hear again 


her, 


The chivalrous battle-song 


Gathering woodland lilies, 


That she warbled alone in her joy ! 


Myriads blow together. 


I might persuade myself then 




She would not do herself this great 


in 


wrong, 


Birds in our wood sang 420 


To take a wanton dissolute boy 


Ringing thro' the valleys, 


For a man and leader of men. 


Maud is here, here, here 


V 


In among the lilies. 


Ah God, for a man with heart, head, 


IV 


hand, 


I kiss'd her slender hand, 


Like some of the simple great ones 


She took the kiss sedately ; 


gone 39 o 


Maud is not seventeen, 


For ever and ever by, 


But she is tall and stately. 


One still strong man in a blatant land, 




Whatever they call him — what care 


V 


I? — 


I to cry out on pride 


Aristocrat, democrat, autocrat — one 


Who have won her favor ! 


Who can rule and dare not lie ! 


0, Maud were sure of heaven 430 


VI 


If lowliness could save her ! 


And ah for a man to arise in me, 


VI 


That the man I am may cease to be ! 


I know the way she went 




Home with her maiden posy, 


XI 


For her feet have touch'd the mea- 




dows 


1 


And left the daisies rosy. 


0, let the solid ground 




Not fail beneath my feet 


VII 


Before my life has found 400 


Birds in the high Hall-garden 


What some have found so sweet ! 


Were crying and calling to her, 


Then let come what come may, 


Where is Maud, Maud, Maud ? 


What matter if I go mad, 


One is come to woo her. 


I shall have had my day. 


VIII 


11 


Look, a horse at the door, 44 o 


Let the sweet heavens endure, 


And little King Charley snarl- 


Not close and darken above me 


ing ! 


Before I am quite quite sure 


Go back, my lord, across the moor, 


That there is one to love me ! 


You are not her darling. 


Then let come what come may 




To a life that has been so sad, 410 


XIII 


I shall have had my day. 


1 


XII 


Scorn'd, to be scorn'd by one that I 




scorn, 


1 


Is that a matter to make me fret ? 


Birds in the high Hail-garden 


That a calamity hard to be borne ? 


When twilight was falling, 


Well, he may live to hate me yet. 



MAUD 



269 



Fool that I am to be vext with his 

pride ! 
I past him, I was crossing his lands ; 
He stood on the path a little aside ; 450 
His face, as I grant, in spite of spite, 
Has a broad-blown comeliness, red and 

white, 
And six feet two, as I think, he stands ; 
But his essences turn'd the live air 

sick, 
And barbarous opulence jewel-thick 
Sunn'd itself on his breast and his 

hands. 



Who shall call me ungentle, unfair ? 
I long'd so heartily then and there 
To give him the grasp of fellowship ; 
But while I past he was humming an 
air, 460 

Stopt, and then with a riding- whip 
Leisurely tapping a glossy boot, 
And curving a contumelious lip, 
Gorgonized me from head to foot 
With a stony British stare. 

in 
Why sits he here in his father's chair ? 
That old man never comes to his place ; 
Shall I believe him ashamed to be 

seen? 
For only once, in the village street, 
Last year, I caught a glimpse of his 
face, 470 

A gray old wolf and a lean. 
Scarcely, now, would I call him a 

cheat ; 
For then, perhaps, as a child of deceit, 
She might by a true descent be un- 
true; 
And Maud is as true as Maud is sweet, 
Tho' I fancy her sweetness only due 
To the sweeter blood by the other side ; 
Her mother has been a thing complete, 
However she came to be so allied. 
And fair without, faithful within, 480 
Maud to him is nothing akin. 
Some peculiar mystic grace 
Made her only the child of her mother, 
And heap'd the whole inherited sin 
On that huge scapegoat of the race, 
All, all upon the brother. 



Peace, angry spirit, and let him be ! 
Has not his sister smiled on me ? 



XIV 



Maud has a garden of roses 
And lilies fair on a lawn ; 
There she walks in her state 
And tends upon bed and bower, 
And thither I climb'd at dawn 
And stood by her garden- gate. 
A lion ramps at the top, 
He is claspt by a passion-flower. 



Maud's own little oak-room — 
Which Maud, like a precious stone 
Set in the heart of the carven gloom, 
Lights with herself, when alone 500 
She sits by her music and books 
And her brother lingers late 
With a roystering company — looks 
Upon Maud's own garden-gate ; 
And I thought as I stood, if a hand, as 

white 
As ocean-foam in the moon, were laid 
On the hasp of the window, and my 

Delight 
Had a sudden desire, like a glorious 

ghost, to glide, 
Like a beam of the seventh heaven, 

down to my side, 
There were but a step to be made. 510 

in 
The fancy flatter' d my mind, 
And again seem'd overbold ; 
Now I thought that she cared for 

me, 
Now I thought she was kind 
Only because she was cold. 



I heard no sound where I stood 
But the rivulet on from the lawn 
Running down to my own dark wood, 
Or the voice of the long sea- wave as 

it swell'd 
Now and then in the dim-gray dawn : 
But I look'd, and round, all round the 

house I beheld 521 

The death -white curtain drawn, 
Felt a horror over me creep, 
Prickle my skin and catch my breath, 
Knew that the death-white curtain 

meant but sleep. 
Yet I shudder d and thought like a 

fool of the sleep of death. 



270 



MAUD AND OTHER POEMS 



XV 

So dark a mind within me dwells, 

And I make myself such evil cheer, 
That if 7 be dear to some one else, 
Then some one else may have much 
to fear ; 530 

But if I be dear to some one else, 
Then I should be to myself more 
dear. 
Shall I not take care of all that I 

think, 
Yea, even of wretched meat and drink, 
If I be dear, 
If I be dear to some one else ? 

XVI 



This lump of earth has left his estate 
The lighter by the loss of his weight ; 
And so that he find what he went to 

seek, 
And fulsome pleasure clog him, and 

drown 540 

His heart in the gross mud-honey of 

town, 
He may stay for a year who has gone 

for a week. 
But this is the day when I must 

speak, 
And I see my Oread coming down, 
O, this is the day ! 

beautiful creature, what am I 
That I dare to look her way ? 
Think I may hold dominion sweet, 
Lord of the pulse that is lord of her 

breast, 
And dream of her beauty with tender 

dread, 550 

From the delicate Arab arch of her 

feet 
To the grace that, bright and light as 

the crest 
Of a peacock, sits on her shining head, 
And she knows it not — O, if she 

knew it, 
To know her beauty might half undo 

it! 

1 know it the one bright thing to 

save 
My yet young life in the wilds of 

Time, 
Perhaps from madness, perhaps from 

crime, 
Perhaps from a selfish grave. 



What, if she be fasten' d to this fool 
lord, 560 

Dare I bid her abide by her word ? 

Should I love her so well if she 

Had given her word to a thing so low ? 

Shall I love her as well if she 

Can break her word were it even for 
me ? 

I trust that it is not so. 

in 

Catch not my breath, O clamorous 

heart, 
Let not my tongue be a thrall to my 

eye. 
For I must tell her before we part, 
I must tell her, or die. 570 

XVII 



Go not, happy day, 

From the shining fields, 
Go not, happy day, 

Till the maiden yields, 
Rosy is the West, 

Rosy is the South, 
Roses are her cheeks, 

And a rose her mouth. 
When the happy Yes 

Falters from her lips, 
Pass and blush the news 

Over glowing ships ; 
Over blowing seas, 

Over seas at rest, 
Pass the happy news, 

Blush it thro' the West ; 
Till the red man dance 

By his red cedar- tree, 
And the red man's babe 

Leap, beyond the sea. 
Blush from West to East, 

Blush from East to West, 
Till the West is East, 

Blush it thro' the West. 
Rosy is the West, 

Rosy is the South, 
Roses are her cheeks, 

And a rose her mouth. 



580 



XVIII 



I have led her home, my love, my 

only friend. 
There is none like her, none. 600 



J 



MAUD 



271 



And never yet so warmly ran my 
blood 

And sweetly, on and on 

Calming itself to the long-wish'd-for 
end, 

Full to the banks, close on the pro- 
mised good. 



None like her, none. 

Just now the dry-tongued laurels' pat- 
tering talk 

Seem'd her light foot along the garden 
walk, 

And shook my heart to think she 
comes once more. 

But even then I heard her close the 
door ; 

The gates of heaven are closed, and 
she is gone. 610 



There is none like her, none, 

Nor will be when our summers have 

deceased. 
O, art thou sighing for Lebanon 
In the long breeze that streams to thy 

delicious East, 
Sighing for Lebanon, 
Dark cedar, tho' thy limbs have here 

increased, 
Upon a pastoral slope as fair, 
And looking to the South and fed 
With honey'd rain and delicate air, 
And haunted by the starry head 620 
Of her whose gentle will has changed 

my fate, 
And made my life a perfumed altar- 
flame ; 
And over whom thy darkness must 

have spread 
With such delight as theirs of old, thy 

great 
Forefathers of the thornless garden, 

there 
Shadowing the snow-limb'd Eve from 

whom she came ? 



Here will I lie, while these long 

branches sway, 
And you fair stars that crown a happy 

day 
Go in and out as if at merry play, 
Who am no more so all forlorn 630 
As when it seem'd far better to be born 



To labor and the mattock-harden'd 

hand 
Than nursed at ease and brought to 

understand 
A sad astrology, the boundless plan 
That makes you tyrants in your iron 

skies, 
Innumerable, pitiless, passionless eyes, 
Cold fires, yet with power to burn and 

brand 
His nothingness into man. 



But now shine on, and what care I, 
Who in this stormy gulf have found 

a pearl 640 

The countercharm of space and hollow 

sky, 
And do accept my madness, and would 

die 
To save from some slight shame one 

simple girl ? — 



Would die, for sullen-seeming Death 

may give 
More life to Love than is or ever 

was 
In our low world, where yet 't is sweet 

to live. 
Let no one ask me how it came to 

pass ; 
It seems that I am happy, that to 

me 
A livelier emerald twinkles in the 

grass, 649 

A purer sapphire melts into the sea. 



Not die, but live a life of truest 

breath, 
And teach true life to fight with mor- 
tal wrongs. 
O, why should Love, like men in 

drinking-sonirs. 
Spice his fair banquet with the dust 

of death ? 
Make answer, Maud my bliss. 
Maud made my Maud by that long 

loving kiss. 
Life of my life, wilt thou not answer 

this ? 
1 The dusky strand of Death inwoven 

here 
With dear Love's tie. makes Love 

himself more dear ' 



272 



MAUD AND OTHER POEMS 



VIII 

Is that enchanted moan only the swell 
Of the long waves that roll in yonder 

bay ? 661 

And hark the clock within, the silver 

knell 
Of twelve sweet hours that past in 

bridal white, 
And died to live, long as my pulses 

play; 
But now by this my love has closed 

her sight 
And given false death her hand, and 

stolen away 
To dreamful wastes where footless 

fancies dwell 
Among the fragments of the golden 

day. 
May nothing there her maiden grace 

affright ! 
Dear heart, I feel with thee the drowsy 

spell. 670 

My bride to be, my evermore delight, 
My own heart's heart, my ownest own, 

farewell ; 
It is but for a little space I go. 
And ye meanwhile far over moor and 

fell 
Beat to the noiseless music of the night ! 
Has our whole earth gone nearer to 

the glow 
Of your soft splendors that you look 

so bright ? 
/ have climb'd nearer out of lonely 

hell. 
Beat, happy stars, timing with things 

below, 
Beat with my heart more blest than 

heart can tell, 680 

Blest, but for some dark undercurrent 

woe 
That seems to draw — but it shall not 

be so ; 
Let all be well, be well. 

XIX 

1 
Her brother is coming back to-night, 
Breaking up my dream of delight. 



My dream ? do I dream of bliss ? 
I have walk'd awake with Truth. 
O, when did a morning shine 
So rich in atonement as this 



For my dark-dawning youth, 690 

Darken'd watching a mother decline 
And that dead man at her heart and 

mine ; 
For who was left to watch her but I ? 
Yet so did I let my freshness die. 



I trust that I did not talk 

To gentle Maud in our walk — 

For often in lonely wanderings 

I have cursed him even to lifeless 

things — 
But I trust that I did not talk, 
Not touch on her father's sin. 700 

I am sure I did but speak 
Of my mother's faded cheek 
When it slowly grew so thin 
That I felt she was slowly dying 
Vext with lawyers and harass'd with 

debt ; 
For how often I caught her with eyes 

all wet, 
Shaking her head at her son and sigh- 
ing 
A world of trouble within ! 

IV 

And Maud too, Maud was moved 
To speak of the mother she loved 710 
As one scarce less forlorn, 
Dying abroad and it seems apart 
From him who had ceased to share 

her heart, 
And ever mourning over the feud, 
The household Fury sprinkled with 

blood 
By which our houses are torn. 
How strange was what she said, 
When only Maud and the brother 
Hung over her dying bed — 
That Maud's dark father and mine 720 
Had bound us one to the other, 
Betrothed us over their wine, 
On the day when Maud was born ; 
Seal'd her mine from her first sweet 

breath ! 
Mine, mine by a right, from birth till 

death ! 
Mine, mine — our fathers have sworn ! 



But the true blood spilt had in it a heat 
To dissolve the precious seal on a bond, 
That, if left uncancell'd, had been so 
sweet ; 



MAUD 



2 73 



And none of us thought of a something 
beyond, 730 

A desire that awoke in the heart of 
the child, 

As it were a duty done to the 
tomb, 

To be friends for her sake, to be rec- 
onciled ; 

And I was cursing them and my 
doom, 

And letting a dangerous thought run 
wild 

While often abroad in the fragrant 
gloom 

Of foreign churches — I see her there, 

Bright English lily, breathing a prayer 

To be friends, to be reconciled ! 



But then what a flint is he ! 740 

Abroad, at Florence, at Rome, 
I find whenever she touch' d on me 
This brother had laugh'd her down, 
And at last, when each came home, 
He had darken'd into a frown, 
Chid her, and forbid her to speak 
To me, her friend of the years be- 
fore; 
And this was what had redden'd her 

cheek 
When I bow'd to her on the moor. 

VII 

Yet Maud, altho' not blind 750 

To the faults of his heart and mind, 
I see she cannot but love him, 
And says he is rough but kind, 
And wishes me to approve him, 
And tells me, when she lay 
Sick once, with a fear of worse, 
That he left his wine and horses and 

Play, 
Sat with her, read to her, night and 

day, 
And tended her like a nurse. 



VIII 



760 



Kind ? but the death-bed desire 
Spurn' d by this heir of the liar- 
Rough but kind ? yet I know 
He has plotted against me in this, 
That he plots against me still. 
Kind to Maud ? that were not amiss. 
Well, rough but kind ; why, let it be 

so, 
For shall not Maud have her will ? 



For, Maud, so tender and true, 
As long as my life endures 
I feel I shall owe you a debt 
That I never can hope to pay ; 
And if ever I should forget 
That I owe this debt to you 
And for your sweet sake to yours, 
O, then, what then shall I say ? — 
If ever I should forget, 
May God make me more wretched 
Than ever I have been yet ! 



So now I have sworn to bury 

All this dead body of hate, 780 

I feel so free and so clear 

By the loss of that dead weight, 

That I should grow light-headed, I 

fear, 
Fantastically merry, 
But that her brother comes, like a 

blight 
On my fresh hope, to the Hall to-night. 

XX 



Strange, that I felt so gay, 

Strange, that / tried to-day 

To beguile her melancholy ; 

The Sultan, as we name him — 790 

She did not wish to blame him — 

But he vext her and perplext her 

With his worldly talk and folly. 

Was it gentle to reprove her 

For stealing out of view 

From a little lazy lover 

Who but claims her as his due ? 

Or for chilling his caresses 

By the coldness of her manners, 

Nay, the plainness of her dresses ? 800 

Now I know her but in two, 

Nor can pronounce upon it 

If one should ask me whether 

The habit, hat, and feather. 

Or the frock and gipsy bonnet 

Be the neater and completer ; 

For nothing can be swe< 

Than maiden Maud in either. 



But to-morrow, if we live, 
Our ponderous s<|imv will [ 

,nd political dinner 
To half the squireU 



810 



^74 



MAUD AND OTHER POEMS 



And Maud will wear her jewels, 
And the bird of prey will hover. 
And the titmouse hope to win her 
With his chirrup at her ear. 



A grand political diDner 

To~the men of many acres. 

A gathering of the Tory. 

A dinner and then a dance S2 

For the maids and marriage-makers. 

And every eye but mine will glance 

At Maud 'in all her glory. 



For I am not invited. 

But. with the Sultan's pardon. 

I am all as well delighted. 

For I know her own rose-garden. 

And mean to linger in it 

Till the dancing will be over ; 

And then. O. then, come out to me 830 

For a minute, but for a minute. 

Come out to your own true lover. 

That your true lover may see 

Your glory also, and render 

All homage to his own darling. 

Queen Maud in all her splendor. 

XXI 

Rivulet crossing my ground, 

And brm^ms^nie' down from the 

Halt 
This garden-rose that I found, 

_ etful of Maud and me. s 4 o 

And lost in trouble and moving round 
Here at the head of a tinkling fall, 
And trying to pass to the sea : 
O rivulet, born at the Hall. 
My Maud has sent it by thee — 
If I read her sweet will right — 
On a blushing mission to me. 
- ing in odor and color, ■ Ah. be 
Among the roses to-night.' 

XXII 
1 
Come into the garden. Maud, 850 

For the black bat. night, has flown, 
Come into the garden, Maud, 

I am here at the gate alone ; 
And the woodbinespices are wafted 
abroad, 
And the musk of the rose is blown. 



For a breeze of morning moves. 

And the planet of Love is on high, 
Beginning to faint in the light lhat 
she loves 
On a bed of daffodil sky. 
To faint in the light of the sun she 
loves. S60 

To faint in his light, and to die. 

in 
All night have the roses heard 

The^tlute, violin, bassoon ; 
All night has the casement jessamine 
stirrd 
To the dancers dancing in tune ; 
Till a silence fell with the waking bird, 
And a hush with the setting moon. 

IV 

I said to the lily, ' There is but one. 

With whom' she has heart to be 
gay. 
TVhen will the dancers leave her alone ? 

She is weary of dance and play.' 871 
Xow half to the setting moon are gone, 

And half to the rising day ; 
Low on the sand and loud on the stone 

The last wheel echoes away. 



I said to the rose, ' The brief night goes 

In babble and revel and wine. 
O young lord-lover, what sighs are 
those, 
For one that will never be thine ? 
But mine, but mine,' so I sware to 
the rose, 8S0 

'For ever and ever, mine.' 



And the soul of the rose went into my 
blood. 
As the music clash'd in the hall ; 
And long by the garden lake I stood, 

For I heard your rivulet fall 
From the lake to the meadow and on 
to the wood, 
Our wood, that is dearer than all ; 

VII 

From the meadow your walks have 
left so sweet 

That whenever a March-wind sighs 
He sets the jewel-print of your feet 

In violets blue as your eyes, 891 



MAUD 






To the woody hollows in which we 
m> 
And the valleys of Parad - 



The slender acacia would not shake 

One long milk-bloom on the t:- 
The white lake -blossom fell into the 
lake 

~he pimpernel dozed on the lea ; 
But the rose was awake all nigL 
your sake. 
Knowing your promise to me ; 
The lilies and roses were all gwafc 
They sighd for the dawn and ti 



Queen rose of the rosebud garden of 
girls. 
Come hither, the dances are done. 
In gloss of satin and glimmer of y 

Queen lily an 
Shine out. little head, sunning 
with em 
To the flowers, and be their sun. 



There has fal". 

•assion- flower at the 

k 

! 

^ar ; " 
And the white rose ~ 
lat-r 
The lark I hear, I 

hear: " 
And the lily whispers. ' I w 



- coming, my own 
Wc ^i. 

My hr i hear her and beat. 

Were it earth in an earthy bed ; 
My d 

Had I lain for a century dc 

art and tremble under her 

And blossom in purple and red. 



--'. 




276 



MAUD AND OTHER POEMS 



PART II 



'The fault was mine, the fault was 

mine ' — 
Why am I sitting here so stunn'd and 

still, 
Plucking the harmless wild-flower on 

the hill? — 
It is this guilty hand ! — 
And there rises ever a passionate 

cry 
From underneath in the darkening 

land — 
What is it, that has been done ? 
O dawn of Eden bright over earth 

and sky, 
The fires of hell brake out of thy ris- 
ing sun, 
The fires of hell and of hate ; 10 

For she, sweet soul, had hardly spoken 

a word, 
When her brother ran in his rage to 

the gate, 
He came with the babe-faced lord, 
Heap'd on her terms of disgrace ; 
And while she wept, and I strove to 

be cool, 
He fiercely gave me the lie, 
Till I with as fierce an anger spoke, 
And he struck me, madman, over the 

face, 
Struck me before the languid fool, 
Who was gaping and grinning by ; 20 
Struck for himself an evil stroke, 
Wrought for his house an irredeem- 
able woe. 
For front to front in an hour we stood, 
And a million horrible bellowing 

echoes broke 
From the red-ribb'd hollow behind 

the wood, 
And thunder'd up into heaven the 

Christless code 
That must have life for a blow. 
Ever and ever afresh they seem'd to 

grow. 
Was it he lay there with a fading 

eye? 
'The fault was mine,' he whisper'd, 

'fly!' 30 

Then glided out of the joyous wood 
The ghastly Wraith of one that I 

know, 



And there rang on a sudden a pas- 
sionate cry, 

A cry for a brother's blood ; 

It will ring in my heart and my ears, 
till I die, till I die. 



Is it gone ? my pulses beat — 

What was it ? a lying trick of the 

brain ? 
Yet I thought I saw her stand, 
A shadow there at my feet, 
High over the shadowy land. 40 

It is gone ; and the heavens fall in a 

gentle rain, 
When they should burst and drown 

with deluging storms 
The feeble vassals of wine and anger 

and lust, 
The little hearts that know not how 

to forgive. 
Arise, my God, and strike, for we 

hold Thee just, 
Strike dead the whole weak race of 

venomous worms, 
That sting each other here in the 

dust ; 
We are not worthy to live. 

II 

1 
See -what a lovely shell, 
Small and pure as a pearl, 50 

Lying close to my foot, 
Frail, but a work divine, 
Made so f airily well 
With delicate spire and whorl, 
How exquisitely minute, 
A miracle of design ! 



What is it? a learned man 

Could give it a clumsy name. 

Let him name it who can, 

The beauty would be the same. 6 

in 
The tiny cell is forlorn, 
Void of the little living will 
That made it stir on the shore. 
Did he stand at the diamond door 
Of his house in a rainbow frill ? 
Did he push, when he was uncurl'd, 
A golden foot or a fairy horn 
Thro' his dim water-world ? 



MAUD 



2 77 



Slight, to be crush' d with a tap 

Of my finger-nail on the sand, 70 

Small, but a work divine, 

Frail, but of force to withstand, 

Year upon year, the shock 

Of cataract seas that snap 

The three-decker's oaken spine 

Athwart the ledges of rock, 

Here on the Breton strand ! 



Breton, not Briton ; here 

Like a shipwreck'd man on a coast 

Of ancient fable and fear — 80 

Plagued with a flitting to and fro, 

A disease, a hard mechanic ghost 

That never came from oh high 

Nor ever arose from below, 

But only moves with the moving 

eye, 
Flying along the land and the main — 
Why should it look like Maud ? 
Am I to be overawed 
By what I cannot but know 
Is a juggle born of the brain ? 90 

VI 

Back from the Breton coast, 

Sick of a nameless fear, 

Back to the dark sea-line 

Looking, thinking of all I have 

lost ; 
An old song vexes my ear, 
But that of Lamech is mine. 

VII 

For years, a measureless ill, 
For years, for ever, to part — 
But she, she would love me still ; 
And as long, O God, as she 100 

Have a grain of love for me, 
So long, no doubt, no doubt, 
Shall I nurse in my dark heart, 
However weary, a spark of will 
Not to be trampled out. 

VIII 

Strange, that the mind, when fraught 
With a passion so intense 
One would think that it well 
Might drown all life in the eye, — 
That it should, by being so over- 
wrought, no 
Suddenly strike on a sharper sense 
For a shell, or a flower, little things 



Which else would have been past by! 

And now I remember, I, 

When he lay dying there, 

I noticed one of his many rings — 

For he had many, poor worm — and 

thought, 
It is his mother's hair. 



Who knows if he be dead ? 

Whether I need have fled ? 20 

Am I guilty of blood ? 

However this may be, 

Comfort her, comfort her, all things 

good, 
While I am over the sea ! 
Let me and my passionate love go 

by, 
But speak to her all things holy and 

high, 
Whatever happen to me ! 
Me and my harmful love go by ; 
But come to her waking, find her 

asleep. 
Powers of the height, Powers of the 

deep, t 3 o 

And comfort her tho' I die ! 

Ill 

Courage, poor heart of stone ! 

I will not ask thee why 

Thou canst not understand 

That thou art left for ever alone ; 

Courage, poor stupid heart of stone ! — 

Or if I ask thee why, 

Care not thou to reply : 

She is but dead, and the time is at 

hand 
When thou shalt more than die. 140 

IV 

1 
O that 't were possible 
After long grief and pain 
To find the arms of my true love 
Round me once again ! 



When I was wont to meet her 

In the silent woody places 

By the homo that "nave me birth. 

We stood tranced in long embra< 

Mixt with kisses sweeter, sw< 

Than anything on earth. 15= 



278 



MAUD AND OTHER POEMS 



A shadow flits before me, 
Not thou, but Like to thee. 

Ah, Christ, that it were possible 

For one short hour to Bee 

The souls we loved, that they might 

tell us 
What and where they be ! 



It leads me forth at evening, 

It lightly winds and steals 

In a cold white robe before me, 

When all my spirit reels 160 

At the shouts, the leagues of lights, 

And the roaring of the wheels. 



Half the night I waste in sighs, 
Half in dreams I sorrow after 
The delight of early skies ; 
In a wakeful doze I sorrow 
For the hand, the lips, the eyes, 
For the meeting of the morrow, 
The delight of happy laughter, 
The delight of low replies. 170 

vr 
T is a morning pure and sweet, 
And a dewy splendor falls 
On the little flower that clings 
To the turrets and the walls ; 
'Tis a morning pure and sweet, 
And the light and shadow fleet. 
She is walking in the meadow, 
And the woodland echo rings ; 
In a moment we shall meet. 
She is singing in the meadow, 180 

And tin; rivulet at her feet 
Ripples on in light and shadow 
To the ballad that she sings. 

VII 

Do I hear her sing as of old, 
My bird with the shining head. 
My own dove with the tender eye ? 
But there rings on a sudden a passion- 
ate cry, 
There is some one dying or dead, 
And a sullen thunder is roll'd ; 
For a tumult shakes the city, 190 

And I wake, my dream is tied. 
In the shuddering dawn, behold, 
Without knowledge, without pity, 
By the curtains of my bed 
That abiding phantom cold ! 



Get thee hence, nor come again, 
Mix not memory with doubt, 
Fass, thou deathlike type of pain, 
Pass and cease to move about ! 
'T is the blot upon the brain 
That will show itself without. 

IX 

Then I rise, the eave-drops fall, 
And the yellow vapors choke 
The great city sounding wide ; 
The day comes, a dull red ball 
Wrapt in drifts of lurid smoke 
On the misty river-tide. 



Thro' the hubbub of the market 
I steal, a wasted frame ; 
It crosses here, it crosses there, 210 
Thro' all that crowd confused and 

loud, 
The shadow still the same ; 
And on my heavy eyelids 
My anguish hangs like shame. 



Alas for her that met me, 

That heard me softly call, 

Came glimmering thro' the laurels 

At the quiet evenfall, 

In the garden by the turrets 

Of the old manorial hall ! 220 

XII 

Would the happy spirit descend 
From the realms of light and song, 
In the chamber or the street, 
As she looks among the blest, 
Should I fear to greet my friend 
( )r to say 'Forgive the wrong/ 
Or to ask her, ' Take me, sweet, 
To the regions of thy rest ' ? 

XIII 

But the broad light glares and beats, 

And the shadow flits and fleets 230 

And will not let me be ; 

And I loathe the squares and streets, 

And the faces that one meets, 

1 learts with no love for me. 

Always I long to creep 

Into some still cavern dee]). 

There to weep, and weep, and 

weep 
My whole soul out to thee. 



MAUD 



279 



Dead, long dead, 

Long dead ! 240 

And my heart is a handful of dust, 
And the wheels go over my head, 
And my bones are shaken with pain, 
For into a shallow grave they are 

thrust, 
Only a yard beneath the street, 
And the hoofs of the horses beat, 

beat, 
The hoofs of the horses beat, 
Beat into my scalp and my brain, 
With never an end to the stream of 

passing feet, 
Driving, hurrying, marrying, burying, 
Clamor and rumble, and ringing and 

clatter ; 251 

And here beneath it is all as bad, 
For I thought the dead had peace, but 

it is not so. 
To have no peace in the grave, is that 

not sad ? 
But up and down and to and fro, 
Ever about me the dead men go ; 
And then to hear a dead man chatter 
Is enough to drive one mad. 

11 
Wretchedest age, since Time began, 
They cannot even bury a man ; 260 
And tho' we paid our tithes in the 

days that are gone, 
Not a bell was rung, not a prayer was 

read. 
It is that which makes us loud in the 

world of the dead ; 
There is none that does his work, not 

one. 
A touch of their office might have 

sufficed, 
But the churchmen fain would kill 

their church, 
As the churches have kill'd their 

Christ. 

in 

See, there is one of us sobbing, 

No limit to his distress ; 

And another, a lord of all things, 
praying 270 

To his own great self, as I guess ; 

And another, a statesman there, be- 
traying 



His party-secret, fool, to the press ; 
And yonder a vile physician, blabbing 
The case of his patient — all for what ? 
To tickle the maggot born in an empty 

head, 
And wheedle a world that loves him 

not, 
For it is but a world of the dead. 



Nothing but idiot gabble ! 

For the prophecy given of old 280 

And then not understood, 

Has come to pass as foretold ; 

Not let any man think for the public 

good, 
But babble, merely for babble. 
For I never whisper'd a private affair 
Within the hearing of cat or mouse, 
No, not to myself in the closet alone, 
But I heard it shouted at once from 

the top of the house ; 
Everything came to be known. 
Who told Mm we were there ? 290 



Not that gray old wolf, for he came 

not back 
From the wilderness, full of wolves, 

where he used to lie ; 
He has gather' d the bones for his 

o'ergrown whelp to crack — 
Crack them now for yourself, and 

howl, and die. 

VI 

Prophet, curse me the blabbing lip, 
And curse me the British vermin, the 

rat ; 
I know not whether he came in the 

Hanover ship, 
But I know that he lies and listens 

mute 
In an ancient mansion's crannies ami 

holes. 
Arsenic, arsenic, sure, would do it, 300 
Except that now we poison our babes. 

poor souls ! 
It is all used up for that. 



Tell him now : she is standing hen 4 at 

my head ; 
Not beautiful now, not even kind : 
He may take her now ; for she never 

s peaks her mind, 



28o 



MAUD AND OTHER POEMS 



But is ever the one thing silent here. 

She is not of us, as I divine ; 

She comes from another stiller world 

of the dead, 
Stiller, not fairer than mine. 

VIII 

But I know where a garden grows, 310 
Fairer than aught in the world beside, 
All made up of the lily and rose 
That blow by night, when the season 

is good, 
To the sound of dancing music and 

flutes : 
It is only flowers, they had no fruits, 
And I almost fear they are not roses, 

but blood ; 
For the keeper was one, so full of 

pride, 
He linkt a dead man there to a spec- 
tral bride ; 
For he, if he had not been a Sultan of 

brutes, 
Would he have that hole in his side ? 



But what will the old man say ? 321 

He laid a cruel snare in a pit 

To catch a friend of mine one stormy 

day; 
Yet now I could even weep to think 

of it ; 
For what will the old man say 
When he comes to the second corpse 

in the pit ? 



Friend, to be struck by the public foe, 
Then to strike him and lay him low, 
That were a public merit, far, 
Whatever the Quaker holds, from 

sin; 330 

But the red life spilt for a private 

blow — 
I swear to you, lawful and lawless 

war 
Are scarcely even akin. 



O me, why have they not buried me 

deep enough ? 
Is it kind to have made me a grave so 

rough, 
Me, that was never a quiet sleeper ? 
Maybe still I am but half -dead ; 
Then I cannot be wholly dumb. 



I will cry to the steps above my 

head 
And somebody, surely, some kind 

heart will come 34 o 

To bury me, bury me 
Deeper, ever so little deeper. 

PART III 



My life has crept so long on a broken 

wing 
Thro' cells of madness, haunts of hor- 
ror and fear, 
That I come to be grateful at last for 

a little thing. 
My mood is changed, for it fell at a 

time of year 
When the face of night is fair on the 

dewy downs, 
And the shining daffodil dies, and the 

Charioteer 
And starry Gemini hang like glorious 

crowns 
Over Orion's grave low down in the 

west, 
That like a silent lightning under the 

stars 
She seem'd to divide in a dream from 

a band of the blest, 10 

And spoke of a hope for the world in 

the coming wars — 
'And in that hope, dear soul, let 

trouble have rest, 
Knowing I tarry for thee,' and pointed 

to Mars 
As he glow'd like a ruddy shield on 

the Lions breast. 



And it was but a dream, yet it yielded 

a dear delight 
To have look'd, tho' but in a dream, 

upon eyes so fair, 
That had been in a weary world my 

one thing bright ; 
And it was but a dream, yet it light- 
en' d my despair 
When I thought that a war would 

arise in defence of the right, 
That an iron tyranny now should 

bend or cease, 20 

The glory of manhood stand on his 

ancient height, 
Nor Britain's one sole God be th* 

lionaire. 



. mil- 



THE BROOK 



281 



No more shall commerce be all in all, 
and Peace 

Pipe on her pastoral hillock a languid 
note, 

And watch her harvest ripen, her 
herd increase, 

Nor the cannon-bullet rust on a sloth- 
ful shore, 

And the cobweb woven across the 
. cannon's throat 

Shall shake its threaded tears in the 
wind no more. 



And as months ran on and rumor of 

battle grew, 
'It is time, it is time, O passionate 

heart/ said I, — 30 

For I cleaved to a cause that I felt to 

be pure and true, — 
' It is time, O passionate heart and 

morbid eye, 
That old hysterical mock -disease 

should die.' 
And I stood on a giant deck and mixt 

my breath 
With a loyal people shouting a battle- 
cry, 
Till I saw the dreary phantom arise 

and fly 
Far into the North, and battle, and 

seas of death. 

IV 

Let it go or stay, so I wake to the 

higher aims 
Of a land that has lost for a little her 

lust of gold, 
And love of a peace that was full of 

wrongs and shames, 40 

Horrible, hateful, monstrous, not to 

be told ; 
And hail once more to the banner of 

battle unroll' d ! 
Tho' many a light shall darken, and 

many shall weep 
For those that are crush'd in the clash 

of jarring claims, 
Yet God's just wrath shall be wreak'd 

on a giant liar, 
And many a darkness into the light 

shall leap, 
And shine in the sudden making of 

splendid names, 
i ttll And noble thought be freer under the 



And the heart of a. people beat with 

one desire ; 
For the peace, that I deem'd no peace, 

is over and done, 50 

And now by the side of the Black and 

the Baltic deep, 
And deathf ul-grinning mouths of the 

fortress, flames 
The blood-red blossom of war with a 

heart of fire. 



Let it flame or fade, and the war roll 

down like a wind, 
We have proved we have hearts in a 

cause, we are noble still, 
And myself have awaked, as it seems, 

to the better mind. 
It is better to fight for the good than 

to rail at the ill ; 
I have felt with my native land, I am 

one with my kind, 
I embrace the purpose of God, and 

the doom assign'd. 



THE BROOK 

' Here by this brook we parted, I to 

the East 
And he for Italy — too late — too late: 
One whom the strong sons of the 

world despise ; 
For lucky rhymes to him were scrip 

and share, 
And mellow metres more than cent 

for cent. 
Nor could he understand how money 

breeds, 
Thought it a dead thing ; yet himself 

could make 
The thing that is not as the thing that 

is. 
O, had he lived ! In our schoolbooks 

we say 
Of those that held their heads above 

the crowd, 10 

They flourish'd then or then ; but lite 

in him 
Could scarce be said to nourish, only 

touch'd 
On such a time as goes before the leaf, 
When all the wood stands in a mist 

of green, 
And nothing perfect. Yet the brook 

he loved, 



282 



MAUD AND OTHER POEMS 



For which, in branding summers of 

Bengal, 
Or even the sweet half -English Neil- 

gherry air, 
I panted, seems, as I re-listen to it, 
Prattling the primrose fancies of the 

boy 
To me that loved him ; for " O brook," 

he says, 20 

"O babbling brook," says Edmund 

in his rhyme, 
' ' Whence come you ? " and the brook 

— why not ? — replies : 

I come from haunts of coot and hern, 

I make a sudden sally, 
And sparkle out among the fern, 

To bicker down a valley. 

By thirty hills I hurry down, 

Or slip between the ridges, 
By twenty thorps, a little town, 

"And half a hundred bridges. 30 

Till last by Philip's farm I flow 

To join the brimming river, 
For men may come and men may go, 

But I go on for ever. 

' Poor lad, he died at Florence, quite 
worn out, 

Travelling to Naples. There is Darn- 
ley bridge, 

It has more ivy ; there the river ; and 
there 

Stands Philip's farm where brook and 
river meet. 

I chatter over stony ways, 

In little sharps and trebles, 40 

I bubble into eddying bays, 

I babble on the pebbles. 

With many a curve my banks I fret 

By many a held and fallow, 
And many a fairy foreland set 

With willow-weed and mallow. 

I chatter, chatter, as I flow 

To join the brimming river, 
For men may come and men may go, 

But I go on for ever. 50 

'But Philip chatter'd more than 
brook or bird, 

Old Philip ; all about the fields you 
caught 

His weary daylong chirping, like the 
dry 

High-elbow'd grigs that leap in sum- 
mer grass. 



I wind about, and in and out, 
With here a blossom sailing, 

And here and there a lusty trout, 
And here and there a grayling, 

And here and there a foamy flake 

Upon me, as I travel 60 

With many a silvery water-break 
Above the golden gravel, 

And draw them all along, and flow 

To join the brimming river, 
For men may come and men may go, 

But I go on for ever. 

'O darling Katie Willows, his one 

child ! 
A maiden of our century, yet most 

meek; 
A daughter of our meadows, yet not 

coarse ; 
Straight, but as lissome as a hazel 

wand ; 70 

Her eyes a bashful azure, and her 

hair 
In gloss and hue the chestnut, when 

the shell 
Divides threefold to show the fruit 

within. 

' Sweet Katie, once I did her a good 
turn, 

Her and her far-off cousin and be- 
trothed, 

James Willows, of one name and heart 
with her. 

For here I came, twenty years back 
— the week 

Before I parted with poor Edmund — 
crost 

By that old bridge which, half in 
ruins then, 

Still makes a hoary eyebrow for the 
gleam 80 

Beyond it, where the waters marry — 
crost, 

Whistling a random bar of Bonny 
Doon, 

And push'd at Philip's garden-gate. 
The gate, 

Half-parted from a weak and scolding 
hinge, 

Stuck ; and he clamor' d from a case- 
ment, ''Run," 

To Katie somewhere in the walks be- 
low, 

1 ' Run, Katie ! " Katie never ran ; she 
moved 



THE BROOK 



283 




' I make a sudden sally 
And sparkle out among the fern ' 



To meet me, winding under woodbine 

bowers, 
A little flutter'd, with her eyelids down, 
Fresh apple-blossom, blushing for a 

boon. . 90 

1 What was it ? less of sentiment 
than sense 

Had Katie ; not illiterate, nor of those 

Who dabbling in the fount of Active 
tears, 

And nursed by mealy-mouth'd philan- 
thropies, 

Divorce the Feeling from her mate 
the Deed. 

1 She told me. She and James had 

quarrell'd. Why ? 
What cause of quarrel ? None, she 

said, no cause ; 
James had no cause : but when I prest 

the cause, 
I learnt that James had nickering 

jealousies 
Which anger'd her. Who anger'd 

James ? I said. 100 



But Katie snatch'd her eyes at once 

from mine, 
And sketching with her slender pointed 

foot 
Some figure like a wizard pentagram 
On garden gravel, let my query pass 
Unclaim'd, in flushing silence, till I 

ask'd 
If James were coming. "Coming 

every day," 
She answer'd, "ever longing to ex- 
plain, 
But evermore her father came across 
With some long-winded tale, and bn >ke 

him short ; 
And James departed vext with him 

and her." no 

How could I help her ? "Would I — 

was it wrong ? " — 
Claspt hands and that petitionary grace 
Of sweet seventeen subdued me ere 

she spoke — 
"O, would I take her father for one 

hour, 
For one half-hour, and let him talk to 

me ! " 



284 



MAUD AND OTHER POEMS 



And even while she spoke, I saw where 
James 

Made toward us, like a wader in the 
surf, 

Beyond the brook, waist-deep in mea- 
dow-sweet. 

' O Katie, what I suffer' d for your 

sake ! 
For in I went, and call'd old Philip out 
To show the farm. Full willingly he 

rose ; 121 

He led me thro' the short sweet-smell- 
ing lanes 
Of his wheat-suburb, babbling as he 

went. 
He praised his land, his horses, his 

machines ; 
He praised his ploughs, his cows, his 

hogs, his dogs ; 
He praised his hens, his geese, his 

guinea-hens, 
His pigeons, who in session on their 

roofs 
Approved him, bowing at their own 

deserts. 
Then from the plaintive mother's teat 

he took 
Her blind and shuddering puppies, 

naming each, 130 

And naming those, his friends, for 

whom they were ; 
Then crost the common into Darnley 

chase 
To show Sir Arthur's deer. In copse 

and fern 
Twinkled the innumerable ear and tail. 
Then, seated on a serpent-rooted beech, 
He pointed out a pasturing colt, and 

said, 
"That was the four-year-old I sold 

the Squire." 
And there he told a long, long-winded 

tale 
Of how the Squire had seen the colt 

at grass. 
And how it was the thing his daugh- 
ter wish'd, 140 
And how he sent the bailiff to the 

farm 
To learn the price, and what the price 

he ask'd, 
And how the bailiff swore that he was 

mad, 
But he stood firm, and so the matter 

hung ; * 



He gave them line ; and five days after 

that 
He met the bailiff at the Golden 

Fleece, 
Who then and there had offer'd some- 
thing more, 
But he stood firm, and so the matter 

hung ; 
He knew the man, the colt would 

fetch its price ; 
He gave them line ; and how by 

chance at last — 150 

It might be May or April, he forgot, 
The last of April or the first of May — 
He found the bailiff riding by the 

farm, 
And, talking from the point, he drew 

him in, 
And there he mellow'd all his heart 

with ale, 
Until they closed a bargain, hand in 

hand. 

1 Then, while I breathed in sight of 
haven, he — 

Poor fellow, could he help it ? — re- 
commenced, 

And ran thro' all the coltish chronicle, 

Wild Will, Black Bess, Tantivy, Tal- 
lyho, 160 

Reform, White Rose, Bellerophon, the 
Jilt, 

Arbaces, and Phenomenon, and the 
rest, 

Till, not to die a listener, I arose, 

And with me Philip, talking still ; and 
so 

We turn'd our foreheads from the fall- 
ing sun, 

And following our own shadows thrice 
as long 

As when they follow'd us from Philip's 
door, 

Arrived, and found the sun of sweet 
content 

Re-risen in Katie's eyes, and all things 
well. 

I steal by lawns and grassy plots, 170 

I slide by hazel covers ; 
I move the sweet forget-me-nots 

That grow for happy lovers. 

I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance, 
Among my skimming swallows ; 

I make the netted sunbeam dance 
Against my sandy shallows. 



THE BROOK 



285 



I murmur under moon and stars 

In brambly wildernesses ; 
I linger by my shingly bars, 180 

I loiter round my cresses ; 

And out again I curve and flow 

To join the brimming river, 
For men may come and men may go, 

But I go on for ever. 

Yes, men may come and go ; and these 
are gone, 

All gone. My dearest brother, Ed- 
mund, sleeps, 

Not by the well-known stream and 
rustic spire, 

But unfamiliar Arno, and the dome 

Of Brunelleschi, sleeps in peace ; and 
he, 

Poor Philip, of all his lavish waste of 
words 191 

Remains the lean P. W. on his tomb ; 

[ scraped the lichen from it. Katie 
walks 



By the long wash of Australasian 

seas 
Far off, and holds her head to other 

stars, 
And breathes in April-autumns. All 

are gone.' 

So Lawrence Aylmer, seated on a 

stile 
In the long hedge, and rolling in his 

mind 
Old waifs of rhyme, and bowing o'er 

the brook 
A tonsured head in middle age forlorn, 
Mused, and was mute. On a sudden 

a low breath 201 

Of tender air made tremble in the 

hedge 
The fragile bindweed-bells and briony 

rings ; 
And he look'd up. There stood a mai- 
den near. 




4 1 steal by lawns and grassy plots, 
I slide by hazel covers ' 



2 86 



MAUD AND OTHER POEMS 



Waiting to pass. In much amaze he 

stared 
On eyes a bashful azure, and on hair 
In gloss and hue the chestnut, when 

the shell 
Divides threefold to show the fruit 

within ; 
Then, wondering, ask'd her, ' Are you 

from the farm ? ' 
'Yes,' answer'd she. 'Pray stay a 

little ; pardon me, 210 

What do they call you ? ' ' Katie. ' 

' That were strange. 
What surname ? ' ' Willows.' ' No ! ' 

' That is my name. ' 
' Indeed ! ' and here he look'd so self- 

perplext, 
That Katie laugh' d, and laughing 

blush'd, till he 
Laugh'd also, but as one before he 

wakes, 
Who feels a glimmering strangeness 

in his dream. 
Then looking at her : ' Too happy, 

fresh and fair, 
Too fresh and fair in our sad world's 

best bloom, 
To be the ghost of one who bore your 

name 
About these meadows, twenty years 



' Have you not heard ? ' said Katie, 
' we came back. 

We bought the farm we tenanted be- 
fore. 

Am I so like her? so they said on 
board. 

Sir, if you knew her in her English 
days, 

My mother, as it seems you did, the 
days 

That most she loves to talk of, come 
with me. 

My brother James is in the harvest- 
field; 

But she — you will be welcome — O, 
come in ! ' 

THE DAISY 

WRITTEN AT EDINBURGH 

O love, what hours were thine and 

mine, 
In lands of palm and southern pine ; 



In lands of palm, or orange-blossom, 
Of olive, aloe, and maize and vine ! 

What Eoman strength Turbia show'd 
In ruin, by the mountain road ; 

How like a gem, beneath, the city 
Of little Monaco, basking, glow'd ! 

How richly down the rocky dell 
The torrent vineyard streaming fell 10 
To meet the sun and sunny waters, 
That only heaved with a summer 
swell ! 

What slender campanili grew 
By bays, the peacock's neck in hue ; 
Where, here and there, on sandy 
beaches 
A milky-bell'd amaryllis blew ! 

How young Columbus seem'd to rove, 
Yet present in his natal grove, 

Now watching high on mountain 

cornice, 
And steering, now, from a purple 

cove, 20 

Now pacing mute by ocean's rim ; 
Till, in a narrow street and dim, 

I stay'd the wheels at Cogoletto, 
And drank, and loyally drank to him ! 

Nor knew we well what pleased us 

most ; 
Not the dipt palm of which they 

boast, 
But distant color, happy hamlet, 
A moulder'd citadel on the coast, 

Or tower, or high hill-convent, seen 
A light amid its olives green ; 30 

Or olive-hoary cape in ocean ; 
Or rosy blossom in hot ravine, 

Where oleanders flush'd the bed 
Of silent torrents, gravel-spread ; 

And, crossing, oft we saw the glisten 
Of ice, far up on a mountain head. 

We loved that hall, tho* white and cold, 
Those niched shapes of noble mould, 
A princely people's awful princes, 
The grave, severe Genovese of old. 40 

At Florence too what golden hours, 
In those long galleries, were ours ; 



TO THE REV. F. D. MAURICE 



287 



What drives about the fresh Cas- 
cine, 
Or walks in Boboli's ducal bowers ! 

In bright vignettes, and each complete, 
Of tower or duomo, sunny-sweet, 

Or palace, how the city glitter' d, 
Thro' cypress avenues, at our feet ! 

But when we crost the Lombard plain 
Remember what a plague of rain ; 50 

Of rain at Reggio, rain at Parma, 
At Lodi rain, Piacenza rain. 

And stern and sad — so rare the smiles 
Of sunlight — look'd the Lombard 
piles ; 
Porch-pillars on the lion resting, 
And sombre, old, colonnaded aisles. 

Milan, O the chanting quires, 
The giant windows' blazon'd fires, 

The height, the space, the gloom, 
the glory ! 
A mount of marble, a hundred spires ! 

1 climb'd the roofs at break of day ; 61 
Sun-smitten Alps before me lay. 

I stood among the silent statues, 
And statued pinnacles, mute as they. 

How faintly- flush' d, how phantom- 
fair, 
Was Monte Rosa, hanging there 
A thousand shadowy- pencill'd val- 
leys 
And snowy dells in a golden air ! 

Remember how we came at last 69 

To Como ; shower and storm and blast 

Had blown the lake beyond his limit, 

And all was flooded ; and how we 

past 

From Como, wken the light was gray, 
And in my head, for half the day, 

The rich Yirgilian rustic measure 
Of ' Lari Maxume,' all the way, 

Like ballad-burthen music, kept, 
As on the Lariano crept 

To that fair port below the castle 
Of Queen Theodolind, where we slept ; 

Or hardly slept, but watch'd awake 81 
A cypress in the moonlight shake, 



The moonlight touching o'er a ter- 
race 
One tall agave above the lake. 

What more ? we took our last adieu, 
And up the snowy Splugen drew ; 
But ere we reach' d the highest sum- 
mit 
I pluck'd a daisy, I gave it you. 

It told of England then to me, 

And now it tells of Italy. 9 o 

O love, we two shall go no longer 
To lands of summer across the sea, 

So dear a life your arms enfold 
Whose crying is a cry for gold ; 

Yet here to-night in this dark city, 
When ill and weary, alone and cold, 

I found, tho' crush'd to hard and 

dry, 
This nursling of another sky 

Still in the little book you lent me, 
And where you tenderly laid it by ; 100 

And I forgot the clouded Forth, 
The gloom that saddens heaven and 
earth, 
The bitter east, the misty summer 
And gray metropolis of the North. 

Perchance to lull the throbs of pain, 
Perchance to charm a vacant brain, 
Perchance to dream you still beside 
me, 
My fancy fled to the South again. 



TO THE REV. F. D. MAURICE 

Come, when no graver cares employ, 
Godfather, come and see your boy ; 
Your presence will be sun in win- 
ter, 
Making the little one leap for joy. 

For, being of that honest few 
Who give the Fiend himself his due, 
Should eighty thousand college- 
councils 
Thunder 'Anathema,' friend, at you, 

Should all our churchmen foam in 

spite 
At you, so careful of the right, 10 



288 



MAUD AND OTHER POEMS 



Yet one lay-hearth would give you 
welcome — 
Take it and come — to the Isle of 
Wight ; 

Where, far from noise and smoke of 

town, 
I watch the twilight falling brown 

All round a careless-order' d garden 
Close to the ridge of a noble down. 

You'll have no scandal while you 

dine, 
But honest talk and wholesome wine, 

And only hear the magpie gossip 
Garrulous under a roof of pine ; 20 

For groves of pine on either hand, 
To break the blast of winter, stand, 

And further on, the hoary Channel 
Tumbles a billow on chalk and sand ; 

Where, if below the milky steep 
Some ship of battle slowly creep, 
And on thro' zones of light and 
shadow 
Glimmer away to the lonely deep, 

We might discuss the Northern sin 
Which made a selfish war begin, 30 
Dispute the claims, arrange the 
chances, — 
Emperor, Ottoman, which shall win ; 

Or whether war's avenging rod 
Shall lash all Europe into blood ; 
Till you should turn to dearer mat- 
ters, 
Dear to the man that is dear to God, — 

How best to help the slender store, 
How mend the dwellings, of the poor, 

How gain in life, as life advances, 
Valor and charity more and more. 40 

Come, Maurice, come ; the lawn as yet 
Is hoar with rime or spongy-wet, 
But when the wreath of March has 
blossom'd, — 
Crocus, anemone, violet, — 

Or later, pay one visit here, 

For those are few we hold as dear ; 

Nor pay but one, but come for many, 
Many and many a happy year. 

January, 1854. 



WILL 



O, well for him whose will is strong ! 

He suffers, but he will not suffer long ; 

He suffers, but he cannot suffer wrong. 

For him nor moves the loud world's 
random mock, 

Nor all Calamity's hugest waves con- 
found, 

Who seems a promontory of rock, 

That, compass'd round with turbulent 
sound, 

In middle ocean meets the surging 
shock, 

Tempest-buffeted, citadel-crown'd. 

11 

But ill for him who, bettering not 
with time, 

Corrupts the strength of heaven-de- 
scended Will, 

And ever weaker grows thro' acted 
crime, 

Or seeming-genial venial fault, 

Recurring and suggesting still ! 

He seems as one whose footsteps halt, 

Toiling in immeasurable sand, 

And o'er a weary sultry land, 

Far beneath a blazing vault, 

Sown in a wrinkle of the monstrous 
hill, 

The city sparkles like a grain of salt. 

ODE ON THE DEATH OF THE 
DUKE OF WELLINGTON 



Bury the Great Duke 

With an empire's lamentation ; 
Let us bury the Great Duke 

To the noise of the mourning of a 
mighty nation ; 
Mourning when their leaders fall, 
Warriors carry the warrior's pall, 
And sorrow darkens hamlet and hall. 

11 
Where shall we lay the man whom we 

deplore ? 
Here, in streaming London's central 

roar. 
Let the sound of those he wrought 

for, 10 

And the feet of those he fought for, 
Echo round his bones for evermore. 



ODE ON THE DEATH OF WELLINGTON 



289 



Lead out the pageant : sad and slow, 
As fits an universal woe, 
Let the long, long procession go, 
And let the sorrowing crowd about it 

grow, 
And let the mournful martial music 

blow ; 
The last great Englishman is low. 



Mourn, for to us he seems the last, 
Remembering all his greatness in the 

past. 20 

No more in soldier fashion will he 

greet 
With lifted hand the gazer in the 

street. 
O friends, our chief state-oracle is 

mute ! 
Mourn for the man of long-enduring 

blood, 
The statesman - warrior, moderate, 

resolute, 
"Whole in himself, a common good. 
Mourn for the man of amplest influ- 
ence, 
Yet clearest of ambitious crime, 
Our greatest yet with least pretence, 
Great in council and great in war, 30 
Foremost captain of his time, 
Rich in saving common-sense, 
And, as the greatest only are, 
In his simplicity sublime. 
O good gray head which all men knew, 
O voice from which their omens all 

men drew, 
O iron nerve to true occasion true, 
O fallen at length that tower of 

strength 
Which stood four-square to all the 

winds that blew ! 
Such was he whom we deplore. 40 

The long self-sacrifice of life is o'er. 
The great World -victor's victor will 

be seen no more. 



All is over and done. 

Render thanks to the Giver, 

England, for thy son. 

Let the bell be toll'd. 

Render thanks to the Giver, 

And render him to the mould. 

Under the cross of gold 

That shines over city and river, 50 



There he shall rest for ever 

Among the wise and the bold. 

Let the bell be toll'd, 

And a reverent people behold 

The towering car, the sable steeds. 

Bright let it be with its blazon' d deeds, 

Dark in its funeral fold. 

Let the bell be toll'd, 

And a deeper knell in the heart be 

knoll'd ; 
And the sound of the sorrowing anthem 
roll'd 60 

Thro' the dome of the golden cross ; 
And the volleying cannon thunder his 

loss ; 
He knew their voices of old. 
For many a time in many a clime 
His captain's-ear has heard them boom 
Bellowing victory, bellowing doom. 
When he with those deep voices 

wrought, 
Guarding realms and kings from 

shame, 
With those deep voices our dead cap- 
tain taught 
The tyrant, and asserts his claim 70 
In that dread sound to the great name 
Which he has worn so pure of blame, 
In praise and in dispraise the same, 
A man of well-attemper d frame. 
O civic muse, to such a name, 
To such a name for ages long, 
To such a name, 

Preserve a broad approach of fame. 
And ever-echoing avenues of song ! 



' Who is he that cometh, like an hon- 
or' d guest, 80 

With banner and with music, with 

» soldier and with priest, 

With a nation weeping, and breaking 
on my rest ? ' — 

Mighty Seaman, this is he 

Was great by land as thou by sea. 

Thine island loves thee well, thou 
famous man, 

The greatest sailor since our world 
began. 

Now, to the roll of muffled drums. 

To thee the greatest soldier com< 

For this is he 

Was great by land as thou bj - 

His foes were thine ; he kept us free ; 

(), give him welcome, this is he 

Worthy of our gorgeous rif 



290 



MAUD AND OTHER POEMS 



And worthy to be laid by thee ; 
For this is England's greatest son, 
He that gain'd a hundred fights, 
Nor ever lost an English gun ; 
This is he that far away 
Against the myriads of Assaye 
Clash/d with his fiery few and won ; 100 
And underneath another sun, 
Warring on a later day, 
Round affrighted Lisbon drew 
The treble works, the vast designs 
Of his labor'd rampart-lines, 
Where he greatly stood at bay, 
Whence he issued forth anew, 
And ever great and greater grew, 
Beating from the wasted vines 
Back to France her banded swarms, no 
Back to France with countless blows, 
Till o'er the hills her eagles flew 
Beyond the Pyrenean pines, 
Follow'd up in valley and glen 
With blare of bugle, clamor of men, 
Roll of cannon and clash of arms, 
And England pouring on her foes. 
Such a war had such a close. 
Again their ravening eagle rose 
In anger, wheel'd on Europe-shadow- 
ing wings, 120 
And barking for the thrones of kings ; 
Till one that sought but Duty's iron 

crown 
On that loud Sabbath shook the spoiler 

down ; 
A day of onsets of despair ! 
Dash'd on every rocky square, 
Their surging charges foam'd them- 
selves away ; 
Last, the Prussian trumpet blew ; 
Thro' the long-tormented air 
Heaven flash'd a sudden jubilant ray, 
And down we swept and charged and 
overthrew. 130 

So great a soldier taught us there 
What long-enduring hearts could do 
In that world-earthquake, Waterloo ! 
Mighty Seaman, tender and true, 
And pure as he from taint of craven 

guile, 
O saviour of the silver-coasted isle, 
O shaker of the Baltic and the Nile, 
If aught of things that here befall 
Touch a spirit among things divine, 
If love of country move thee there at 
all, 140 

Be glad, because his bones are laid by 
thine ! 



And thro' the centuries let a people's 

voice 
In full acclaim, 
A people's voice, 

The proof and echo of all human fame, 
A people's voice, when they rejoice 
At civic revel and pomp and game, 
Attest their great commander's claim 
With honor, honor, honor, honor to 

him, 
Eternal honor to his name. 150 



A people's voice ! we are a people yet. 
Tho' all men else their nobler dreams 

forget, 
Confused by brainless, mobs and law- 
less Powers, 
Thank Him who isled us here, and 

roughly set 
His Briton in blown seas and storming 

showers, 
We have a voice with which to pay 

the debt 
Of boundless love and reverence and 

regret 
To those great men who fought, and 

kept it ours. 
And keep it ours, O God, from brute 

control ! 
O Statesmen, guard us, guard the eye, 

the soul 160 

Of Europe, keep our noble England 

whole, 
And save the one true seed of freedom 

sown 
Betwixt a people and their ancient 

throne, 
That sober freedom out of which there 

springs 
Our loyal passion for our temperate 

kings ! 
For, saving that, ye help to save man- 
kind 
Till public wrong be crumbled into 

dust, 
And drill the raw world for the march 

of mind, 
Till crowds at length be sane and 

crowns be just. 
But wink no more in slothful over- 
trust. 170 
Remember him who led your hosts ; 
He bade you guard the sacred coasts. 
Your cannons moulder on the seaward 

wall ; 



ODE ON THE DEATH OF WELLINGTON 



291 



His voice is silent in your council-hall 
For ever ; and whatever tempests lour 
For ever silent ; even if they broke 
In thunder, silent ; yet remember all 
He spoke among you, and the Man 

who spoke ; 
Who never sold the truth to serve the 

hour, 
Nor palter'd with Eternal God for 

power ; 180 

Who let the turbid streams of rumor 

flow 
Thro' either babbling world of high 

and low ; 
Whose life was work, whose language 

rife 
With rugged maxims hewn from life ; 
Who never spoke against a foe ; 
Whose eighty winters freeze with one 

rebuke 
All great self-seekers trampling on the 

right. 
Truth-teller was our England's Alfred 

named ; 
Truth-lover was our English Duke ; 
Whatever record leap to light 190 

He never shall be shamed. 

VIII 

Lo ! the leader in these glorious wars 
Now to glorious burial slowly borne, 
Follow'd by the brave of other lands, 
He, on whom from both her open 

hands 
Lavish Honor shower' d all her stars, 
And affluent Fortune emptied all her 

horn. 
Yea, let all good things await 
Him who cares not to be great 
But as he saves or serves the state. 200 
Not once or twice in our rough island- 
story 
The path of duty was the way to 

glory. 
He that walks it, only thirsting 
For the right, and learns to deaden 
Love of self, before his journey closes. 
He shall find the stubborn thistle burst- 
ing 
Into glossy purples, which outredden 
All voluptuous garden-roses. 
Not once or twice in our fair island- 
story 
The path of duty was the way to 
glory. 210 

He, that ever following her commands, 



On with toil of heart and knees and 

hands, 
Thro' the long gorge to the far light 

has won 
His path upward, and prevail'd, 
Shall find the toppling crags of Duty 

scaled 
Are close upon the shining table-lands 
To which our God Himself is moon 

and sun. 
Such was he : his work is done. 
But while the races of mankind endure 
Let his great example stand 220 

Colossal, seen of every land, 
And keep the soldier firm, the states- 
man pure ; 
Till in all lands and thro' all human 

story 
The path of duty be the way to glory. 
And let the land whose hearths he 

saved from shame 
For many and many an age proclaim 
At civic revel and pomp and game, 
And when the long-illumined cities 

flame, 
Their ever-loyal iron leader's fame, 
With honor, honor, honor, honor to 

him, 230 

Eternal honor to his name. 



Peace, his triumph will be sung 
By some yet unmoulded tongue 
Far on in" summers that we shall not 

see. 
Peace, it is a day of pain 
For one about whose patriarchal knee 
Late the little children clung. 
O peace, it is a day of pain 
For one upon whose hand and heart 

and brain 
Once the weight and fate of Europe 

hung. 240 

Ours the pain, be his the gain ! 
More than is of man's clou ice 
Must be with us, watching here 
At this, our great solemnity. 
Whom we see not we revere ; 
We revere, and we refrain 
From talk of battles loud and vain, 
And brawling memories all too free 
For such a wise humility 
As befits a solemn fane : 
We revere, ami while we hear 
The tides of Music's golden 
Setting toward eternity, 



292 



MAUD AND OTHER POEMS 



Uplifted high in heart and hope are 


Not tho' the soldier knew 


we, 


Some one had blunder' d. 


Until we doubt not that for one so true 


Theirs not to make reply, 


There must be other nobler work to do 


Theirs not to reason why, 


Than when he fought at Waterloo, 


Theirs but to do and die. 


And Victor he must ever be. 


Into the valley of Death 


For tho' the Giant Ages heave the hill 


Rode the six hundred. 


And break the shore, and evermore 260 




Make and break, and work their will, 


in 


Tho' world on world in myriad myriads 


Cannon to right of them, 


roll 


Cannon to left of them, 


Round us each with different powers, 


Cannon in front of them 


And other forms of life than ours, 


Volley'd and thunder'd ; 


What know we greater than the soul ? 


Storm'd at with shot and shell, 


On God and Godlike men we build our 


Boldly they rode and well, 


trust. 


Into the jaws of Death, 


Hush, the Dead March wails in the 


Into the mouth of hell 


people's ears ; 


Rode the six hundred. 


The dark crowd moves, and there are 




sobs and tears ; 


IV 


The black earth yawns; the mortal 


Flash'd all their sabres bare, 


disappears ; 


Flash'd as they turn'd in air 


Ashes to ashes, dust to dust ; 270 


Sabring the gunners there, 


He is gone who seem'd so great. — 


Charging an army, while 


Gone, but nothing can bereave him 


All the world wonder'd. 


Of the force he made his own 


Plunged in the battery-smoke 


Being here, and we believe him 


Right thro' the line they broke ; 


Something far advanced in State, 


Cossack and Russian 


And that he wears a truer crown 


Reel'd from the sabre-stroke 


Than any wreath that man can weave 


Shatter' d and sunder' d. 


him. 


Then they rode back, but not, 


Speak no more of his renown, 


Not the six hundred. 


Lay your earthly fancies down, 




And in the vast cathedral leave him, 280 


V 


God accept him, Christ receive him ! 


Cannon to right of them, 


1852. 


Cannon to left of them, 




Cannon behind them 


THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT 


- Volley'd and thunder'd ; 


BRIGADE 


Storm'd at with shot and shell, 




While horse and hero fell, 


1 


They that had fought so well 


Half a league, half a league, 


Came thro' the jaws of Death, 


Half a league onward, 


Back from the mouth of hell, 


All in the valley of Death 


All that was left of them, 


Rode the six hundred. 


Left of six hundred. 


' Forward the Light Brigade ! 




Charge for the guns ! ' he said. 


VI 


Into the valley of Death 


When can their glory fade ? 


Rode the six hundred. 


the wild charge they made ! 




All the world wonder'd. 


Ti 


Honor the charge they made ! 


' Forward, the Light Brigade ! ' 


Honor the Light Brigade, 


Was there a man dismay'd ? 


Noble six hundred ! 






&■• 




' Beating it in upon his weary brain, 
As tho' it were the burden of a song, 
" Not to tell her, never to let her know ' 



ENOCH ARDEN AND OJHER POEMS 



ENOCH ARDEN 

Long lines of cliff breaking have 
left a chasm ; 

And in the chasm are foam and yel- 
low sands ; 

Beyond, red roofs about a narrow 
wharf 

In cluster ; then a moulder'd church ; 
and higher 

A long street climbs to one tall-tower'd 
mill; 



And high in heaven behind it a gray 
down 

With Danish barrows; and a hazel- 
wood, 

By autumn nutters haunted, flourishes 

Green in a cuplike hollow of the down. 

Here on this beach a hundred y< 
ago, 

Three children of three houses, Annie 
Lee. 

The prettiest little damsel in the i 

And Philip Ray, the miller's onlj 



294 



ENOCH ARDEN AND OTHER POEMS 



And Enoch Arden, a rough sailor's lad 

Made orphan by a winter shipwreck, 
play'd 

Among the waste and lumber of the 
shore, 

Hard coils of cordage, swarthy fish- 
ing-nets, 

Anchors of rusty fluke, and boats up- 
drawn ; 

And built their castles of dissolving 
sand 

To watch them overflow'd, or follow- 
ing up 20 

And flying the white breaker, daily 
left 

The little footprint daily wash'd away. 

A narrow cave ran in beneath the 

cliff ; 
In this the children play'd at keeping 

house. 
Enoch was host one day, Philip the 

next, 
While Annie still was mistress ; but 

at times 
Enoch would hold possession for a 

week: 
' This is my house and this my little 

wife.' 
'Mine too,' said Philip; 'turn and 

turn about ; ' 
When, if they quarrell'd, Enoch 

stronger-made 30 

Was master. Then would Philip, his 

blue eyes 
All flooded with the helpless wrath of 

tears, 
Shriek out, • I hate you, Enoch,' and 

at this 
The little wife would weep for com- 
pany, 
And pray them not to quarrel for her 

sake, 
And say she would be little wife to 

both. 

But when the dawn of rosy child- 
hood past, 

And the new warmth of life's ascend- 
ing sun 

Was felt by either, either fixt his heart 

On that one girl; and Enoch spoke 
his love, 40 

But Philip loved in silence; and the 
girl 

Seem'd kinder unto Philip than to him ; 



But she loved Enoch, tho' she knew 

it not, 
And would if ask'd deny it. Enoch set 
A purpose evermore before his eyes, 
To hoard all savings to the uttermost, 
To purchase his own boat, and make 

a home 
For Annie ; and so prosper'd that at last 
A luckier or a bolder fisherman, 
A carefuller in peril, did not breathe 
For leagues along that breaker-beaten 
coast 51 

Than Enoch. Likewise had he served 

a year 
On board a merchantman, and made 

himself 
Full sailor ; and he thrice had pluck' d 

a life 
From the dread sweep of the down- 
streaming seas, 
And all men look'd upon him favor- 
ably. 
And ere he touch'd his one-and-twen- 

tieth May 
He purchased his own boat, and made 

a home 
For Annie, neat and nestlike, halfway 

up 
The narrow street that clamber'd to- 
ward the mill. 60 

Then, on a golden autumn eventide, 
The younger people making holiday, 
With bag and sack and basket, great 

and small, 
Went nutting to the hazels. Philip 

stay'd — 
His father lying sick and needing 

him — 
An hour behind ; but as he climb' d 

the hill, 
Just where the prone edge of the 

wood began 
To feather toward the hollow, saw 

the pair, 
Enoch and Annie, sitting hand-in- 
hand, 
His large gray eyes and weather-beaten 

face 70 

All-kindled by a still and sacred fire, 
That burn'd as on an altar. Philip 

look'd, 
And in their eyes and faces read his 

doom ; 
Then, as their faces drew together, 

groan'd, 



ENOCH ARDEN 



2 95 



And slipt aside, and like a wounded 

life 
Crept down into the hollows of the 

wood ; 
There, while the rest were loud in 

merry-making, 
Had his dark hour unseen, and rose 

and past 
Bearing a lifelong hunger in his heart. 

So these were wed, and merrily rang 

the bells, 80 

And merrily ran the years, seven 

happy years, 
Seven happy years of health and com- 
petence, 
And mutual love and honorable toil, 
With children, first a daughter. In 

him woke, 
With his first babe's first cry, the 

noble wish 
To save all earnings to the uttermost, 
And give his child a better bringing-up 
Than his had been, or hers ; a wish re- 

new'd, 
When two years after came a boy to be 
The rosy idol of her solitudes, 90 

While Enoch was abroad on wrathful 
seas, 



Or often journeying landward ; for in 

truth 
Enoch's white horse, and Enoch's 

ocean-spoil 
In ocean-smelling osier, and his face, 
Rough-redden'd with a thousand win- 
ter gales, 
Not only to* the market-cross were 

known, 
But in the leafy lanes behind the down, 
Far as the portal- warding lion- whelp 
And peacock yew-tree of the lonelv 

Hall, 
Whose Friday fare was Enoch's minis- 
tering. IOO 

Then came a change, as all things 

human change. 
Ten miles to northward of the narrow 

port 
Open'd a larger haven. Thither used 
Enoch at times to go by land or 

sea; 
And once when there, and clambering 

on a mast 
In harbor, by mischance he slipt and 

fell. 
A limb was broken when they lifted 

him ; 




' He thrice had pluck' d a life 
From the dread sweep of the down-streaming seas ' 



296 



ENOCH ARDEN AND OTHER POEMS 



And while he lay recovering there, his 

wife 
Bore him another son, a sickly one. 
Another hand crept too across his 

trade no 

Taking her bread and theirs ; and on 

him fell, 
Altho' a grave and staid God-fearing 

man, 
Yet lying thus inactive, doubt and 

gloom. 
He seem'd, as in a nightmare of the 

night, 
To see his children leading evermore 
Low miserable lives of hand-to-mouth, 
And her he loved a beggar. Then he 

pray'd, 
' Save them from this, whatever comes 

to me/ 
And while he pray'd, the master of 

that ship 
Enoch had served in, hearing his mis- 
chance, 120 
Came, for he knew the man and valued 

him, 
Reporting of his vessel China-bound, 
And wanting yet a boatswain. Would 

he go? 
There yet were many weeks before 

she sail'd, 
Sail'd from this port. Would Enoch 

have the place ? 
And Enoch all at once assented to it, 
Rejoicing at that answer to his prayer. 

So now that shadow of mischance 

appear' d 
No graver than as when some little 

cloud 
Cuts off the fiery highway of the sun, 
And isles a light in the offing. Yet 

the wife — 131 

When he was gone — the children — 

what to do ? 
Then Enoch lay long-pondering on his 

plans : 
To sell the boat — and yet he loved 

her well — 
How many a rough sea had he 

weather'd in her ! 
He knew her, as a horseman knows 

his horse — 
And yet to sell her — then with what 

she brought 
Buy goods and stores — set Annie forth 

in trade 



With all that seamen needed or their 

wives — 
So might she keep the house while he 
was gone. 140 

Should he not trade himself out yon- 
der ? go 
This voyage more than once? yea, 

twice or thrice — 
As oft as needed — last, returning rich, 
Become the master of a larger craft, 
With fuller profits lead an easier life, 
Have all his pretty young ones edu- 
cated, 
And pass his days in peace among his 
own. 

Thus Enoch in his heart determined 
all; 

Then moving homeward came on 
Annie pale, 

Nursing the sickly babe, her latest- 
born. 150 

Forward she started with a happy cry, 

And laid the feeble infant in his arms ; 

Whom Enoch took, and handled all his 
limbs, 

Appraised his weight and fondled 
fatherlike, 

But had no heart to break his purposes 

To Annie, till the morrow, when he 
spoke. 

Then first since Enoch's golden ring 

had girt 
Her finger, Annie fought against his 

will ; 
Yet not with brawling opposition she, 
But manifold entreaties, many a tear, 
Many a sad kiss by day, by night, re- 

new'd — 161 

Sure that all evil would come out of 

it— 
Besought him, supplicating, if he cared 
For her or his dear children, not to go. 
He not for his own self caring, but her, 
Her and her children, let her plead in 

vain ; 
So grieving held his will, and bore it 

thro'. 

For Enoch parted with his old sea- 
friend, 

Bought Annie goods and stores, and 
set his hand 

To fit their little streetward sitting- 
room 170 



ENOCH ARDEN 



297 




' Forward she started with a happy cry, 
And laid the feeble infant in his arms ' 



With shelf and corner for the goods 

and stores. 
So all day long till Enoch's last at 

home, 
Shaking their pretty cabin, hammer 

and axe, 
Auger and saw, while Annie seem'd to 

hear 
Her own death-scaffold raising, shrill'd 

and rang, 
Till this was ended, and his careful 

hand, — 
The space was narrow, — having 

order' d all 
Almost as neat and close as Nature 

packs 



Her blossom or her seedling, paused ; 

and he, 
Who needs would work for Annie to 

the last, 1 So 

Ascending tired, heavily slept till 

morn. 

And Enoch faced this morning of 

farewell 
Brightly and boldly. All his Annie's 

fears, 
Save as his Annie's, were a laughter to 

htm. 
Yet Enoch asa brave God-fearing man 
Bow'd himself down, and in that inys- 

tery 



298 



ENOCH ARDEN AND OTHER POEMS 



Where God-in-man is one with man-in- 

God, 
Pray'd for a blessing on his wife and 

babes, 
Whatever came to him ; and then he 

said: 
'Annie, this voyage by the grace of 

God 190 

Will bring fair weather yet to all of 

us. 
Keep a clean hearth and a clear fire for 

me, 
For I '11 be back, my girl, before you 

know it ; ' 
Then lightly rocking baby's cradle, 

' and he, 
This pretty, puny, weakly little one, — 
Nay — for I love him all the better for 

it — 
God bless him, he shall sit upon my 

knees 
And I will tell him tales of foreign 

parts, 
And make him merry, when I come 

home again. 
Come, Annie, come, cheer up before I 

gO. ' 200 

Him running on thus hopefully she 
heard, 

And almost hoped herself ; but when 
he turn'd 

The current of his talk to graver 
things 

In sailor fashion roughly sermonizing 

On providence and trust in heaven, she 
heard, 

Heard and not heard him ; as the vil- 
lage girl, 

Who sets her pitcher underneath the 
spring, 

Musing on him that used to fill it for 
her, 

Hears and not hears, and lets it over- 
flow. 

At length she spoke : ' O Enoch, you 
are wise ; 210 

And yet for all your wisdom well 
know I 

That I shall look upon your face no 
more.' 

'Well, then,' said Enoch, 'I shall 
look on yours. 
Annie, the ship I sail in passes here' — 



He named the day ; — 'get you a sea- 
man's glass, 

Spy out my face, and laugh at all your 
fears.' 

But when the last of those last mo- 
ments came . 
'Annie, my girl, cheer up, be com- 
forted, 
Look to the babes, and till I come again 
Keep everything shipshape, for I must 

gO. 220 

And fear no more for me ; or if you 

fear, 
Cast all your cares on God ; that anchor 

holds. 
Is He not yonder in those uttermost 
Parts of the morning ? if I flee to these, 
Can I go from Him? and the sea is 

His, 
The sea is His ; He made it.' 

Enoch rose, 
Cast his strong arms about his droop- 
ing wife, 
And kiss'd his wonder-stricken little 

ones ; 
But for the third, the sickly one, who 

slept 
After a night of feverous wakefulness, 
When Annie would have raised him 

Enoch said, 231 

' Wake him not, let him sleep ; how 

should the child 
Remember this ? ' and kiss'd him in 

his cot. 
But Annie from her baby's forehead 

dipt 
A tiny curl, and gave it ; this he kept 
Thro' all his future, but now hastily 

caught 
His bundle, waved his hand, and went 

his way. 

She, when the day that Enoch men- 
tion'd came, 

Borrow' d a glass, but all in vain. Per- 
haps 

She could not fix the glass to suit her 
eye ; 240 

Perhaps her eye was dim, hand trem- 
ulous ; 

She saw him not, and while he stood 
on deck 

Waving, the moment and the vessel 
past. 






ENOCH ARDEN 



299 



Even to the last dip of the vanish- 
ing sail 

She watch' d it, and departed weeping 
for him ; 

Then, tho' she mourn'd his absence as 
his grave, 

Set her sad will no less to chime with 
his, 

But throve not in her trade, not being 
bred 

To barter, nor compensating the want 

By shrewdness, neither capable of 
lies, 250 

Nor asking overmuch and taking less, 

And still foreboding 'what would 
Enoch say ? ' 

For more than once, in days of diffi- 
culty 

And pressure, had she sold her wares 
for less 

Than what she gave in buying what 
she sold. 

She fail'd and sadden' d knowing it ; 
and thus, 

Expectant of that news which never 
came, 

Gain'd for her own a scanty suste- 
nance, 

And lived a life of silent melancholy. 

Now the third child was sickly-born 
and grew 260 

Yet sicklier, tho' the mother cared for it 

With all a mother's care ; nevertheless, 

Whether her business often call'd her 
from it. 

Or thro' the want of what it needed 
most, 

Or means to pay the voice who best 
could tell 

What most it needed — howsoe'er it 
was, 

After a lingering, — ere she was 
aware, — 

Like the caged bird escaping sud- 
denly, 

The little innocent soul flitted away. 

In that same week when Annie 

buried it, 270 

Philip's true heart, which hunger'd 

for her peace, — 
Since Enoch left he had not look'd 

upon her, — 
Smote him, as having kept aloof so 

long. 



'Surely,' said Philip, 'I may see her 

now, 
May be some little comfort ; ' there- 
fore went, 
Past thro' the solitary room in front, 
Paused for a moment at an inner door, 
Then struck it thrice, and, no one 

opening, 
Enter'd, but Annie, seated with her 

grief, 
Fresh from the burial of her little 

one, 280 

Cared not to look on any human face, 
But turn'd her own toward the wall 

and wept. 
Then Philip standing up said falter - 

ingly, 
' Annie, I came to ask a favor of you/ 

He spoke ; the passion in her moan' d 

reply, 
'Favor from one so sad and so forlorn 
As I am ! ' half abash'd him ; yet un- 

ask'd, 
His bashf ulness and tenderness at war, 
He set himself beside her, saying to 

her : 

' I came to speak to you of what he 

wish'd, 290 

Enoch, your husband. I have ever 

said 
You chose the best among us — a 

strong man ; 
For where he fixt his heart he set his 

hand 
To do the thing he will'd, and bore it 

thro'. 
And wherefore did he go this weary 

way, 
And leave you lonely ? not to see the 

world — 
For pleasure ? — nay, but for the 

wherewithal 
To give his babes a better bringing up 
Than his had been, or yours ; that was 

his wish. 
And if he come again, vext will lie be 
To find the precious morning hours 

were lost. 301 

And it would vex him even in his 

grave, 
If he could know his babes were run- 
ning wild 
Like colts about the waste. So. Annie, 

now — 



30o 



ENOCH ARDEN AND OTHER POEMS 



Have we not known each other all our 

lives ? 
I do beseech you by the love you 

bear 
Him and his children not to say me 

nay — 
For, if you will, when Enoch comes 

again 
Why then he shall repay me — if you 

will, 
Annie — for I am rich and well-to-do. 
Now let me put the boy and girl to 

school ; 3" 

This is the favor that I came to ask.' 

Then Annie with her brows against 

the wall 
Answer'd, ' I cannot look you in the 

face ; 
I seem so foolish and so broken down. 
When you came in my sorrow broke 

me down ; 
And now I think your kindness breaks 

me down. 
But Enoch lives ; that is borne in on 

me; 
He will repay you. Money can be 

repaid, 319 

Not kindness such as yours/ 

And Philip ask'd, 
* Then you will let me, Annie ? ' 

There she turn'd, 

She rose, and fixt her swimming eyes 
upon him, 

And dwelt a moment on his kindly 
face, 

Then calling down a blessing on his 
head 

Caught at his hand, and wrung it pas- 
sionately. 

And past into the little garth beyond. 

So lifted up in spirit he moved away. 

Then Philip put the boy and girl 

to school, 
And bought them needful books, and 

every way, 
Like one who does his duty by his 

own, 330 

Made himself theirs; and tho' for 

Annie's sake, 
Fearing the lazy gossip of the port, 
He oft denied his heart his dearest 

wish, 



And seldom crost her threshold, yet v 

he sent 
Gifts by the children, garden-herbs 

and fruit, 
The late and early roses from his wall, 
Or conies from the down, and now 

and then, 
With some pretext of fineness in the 

meal 
To save the offence of charitable, 

flour 
From his tall mill that whistled on 

the waste. 340 

But Philip did not fathom Annie's 

mind ; 
Scarce could the woman, when he 

came upon her, 
Out of full heart and boundless grati- 
tude 
Light on a broken word to thank him 

with. 
But Philip was her children's all-in-all ; 
From distant corners of the street they 

ran 
To greet his hearty welcome heartily ; 
Lords of his house and of his mill 

were they, 
Worried his passive ear with petty 

wrongs 
Or pleasures, hung upon him, play'd 

with him 350 

And call'd him Father Philip. Philip 

gain'd 
As Enoch lost, for Enoch seem'd to 

them 
Uncertain as a vision or a dream, 
Faint as a figure seen in early dawn 
Down at the far end of an avenue, 
Going we know not where ; and so 

ten years, 
Since Enoch left his hearth and native 

land, 
Fled forward, and no news of Enoch 

came. 

It chanced one evening Annie's 
children long'd 

To go with others nutting to the 
wood, 360 

And Annie would go with them ; 
then they begg'd 

For Father Philip, as they call'd him, 
too. 

Him, like the working bee in blossom- 
dust, 



ENOCH ARDEN 



301 







' Then Philip put the boy and girl to school, 
And bought them needful books ' 



Blanch' d with his mill, they found ; 

and saying to him, 
'Come with us, Father Philip/ he 

denied ; 
But when the children pluck'd at him 

to go, 
He laugh' d, and yielded readily to 

their wish, 
For was not Annie with them? and 

they went. 

But after scaling half the weary 
down, 
Just where the prone edge of the 
wood began 370 



To feather toward the hollow, all her 

force 
Fail'd her ; and sighing, ' Let me rest,' 

she said. 
So Philip rested with her well-content ; 
While all the younger ones with jubi- 
lant cries 
Broke from their elders, and tumul- 

tuously 
Down thro' the whitening hazels made 

a plunge 
To the bottom, and dispersed, and 

bent or broke 
The lithe reluctant boughs to tear 

away 



302 



ENOCH ARDEN AND OTHER POEMS 



Their tawny clusters, crying to each 

other 
And calling, here and there, about 

the wood. 380 

But Philip sitting at her side forgot 
Her presence, and remeniber'd one 

dark hour 
Here in this wood, when like a 

wounded life 
He crept into the shadow. At last he 

said, 
Lifting his honest forehead, ' Listen, 

Annie, 
How merry they are down yonder in 

the wood. 
Tired, Annie ? ' for she did not speak 

a word. 
' Tired ? ' but her face had fallen upon 

her hands ; 
At which, as with a kind of anger in 

him, 
'The ship was lost,' he said, ' the ship 

was lost ! 390 

No more of that ! why should you kill 

yourself ' 
And make them orphans quite ? ' 

And Annie said, 
' I thought not of it ; but — I know 

not why — 
Their voices make me feel so solitary.' 

Then Philip coming somewhat closer 

spoke : 
1 Annie, there is a thing upon my mind, 
And it has been upon my mind so long 
That, tho' I know not when it first 

came there, 
I know that it will out at last. 

O Annie, 
It is beyond all hope, against all 

chance, 400 

That he who left you ten long years 

ago 
Should still be living ; well, then — let 

me speak. 
I grieve to see you poor and wanting 

help ; 
I cannot help you as I wish to do 
Unless — they say that women are so 

quick — 
Perhaps you know what I would have 

you know — 
I wish you for my wife. I fain would 

prove 
A father to your children ; I do think 



They love me as a father ; I am sure 
That I love them as if they were mine 

own ; 410 

And I believe, if you were fast my 

wife, 
That after all these sad uncertain years 
We might be still as happy as God 

grants 
To any of his creatures. Think upon 

it; 
For I am well-to-do — no kin, no care, 
No burthen, save my care for you and 

yours, 
And we have known each other all our 

lives, 
And I have loved you longer than you 

know. ' 

Then answer' d Annie — tenderly she 

spoke : 
' You have been as God's good angel 

in our house. 420 

God bless you for it, God reward you 

for it, 
Philip, with something happier than 

myself. 
Can one love twice ? can you be ever 

loved 
As Enoch was? what is it that you 

ask?' 
'I am content,' he answer'd, 'to be 

loved 
A little after Enoch.' 'O,' she cried, 
Scared as it were, ' dear Philip, wait a 

while. 
If Enoch comes — but Enoch will not 

come — 
Yet wait a year, a year is not so long. 
Surely I shall be wiser in a year. 430 
O, wait a little ! ' Philip sadly said, 
' Annie, as I have waited all my life 

I well may wait a little.' 'Nay,' she 

cried, 

I I am bound : you have my promise 

— in a year. 
Will you not bide your year as I bide 

mine ? ' 
And Philip answer'd, ' I will bide my 

year.' 

Here both were mute, till Philip 
glancing up 

Beheld the dead flame of the fallen 
day 

Pass from the Danish barrow over- 
head : 




ENOCH ARDEN 



303 



Then, fearing night and chill for Annie, 

rose 440 

And sent his voice beneath him thro' 

the wood. 
Up came the children laden with their 

spoil ; 
Then all descended to the port, and 

there 
At Annie's door he paused and gave 

his hand, 
Saying gently, ' Annie, when I spoke 

to you, 
That was your hour of weakness. I 

was wrong, 
I am always bound to you, but you 

are free. ' 
Then Annie weeping answer' d, ' I am 

bound.' 

She spoke ; and in one moment as it 
were, 
While yet she went about her house- 
hold ways, 450 



Even as she dwelt upon his latest 

words, 
That he had loved her longer than she 

knew, 
That autumn into autumn flash' d 

again, 
And there he stood once more before 

her face, 
Claiming her promise. ' Is it a year ? ' 

she ask'd. 
'Yes, if the nuts,' he said, 'be ripe 

again ; 
Come out and see.' But she — she put 

him off — 
So much to look to — such a change — 

a month — 
Give her a month — she knew that she 

was bound — 
A month — no more. Then Philip with 

his eyes 460 

Full of that lifelong hunger, and his 

voice 
Shaking a little like a drunkard's hand, 




' Then Philip coming somewhat closer spoke : 
" Annie, there is a thing upon my mind " ' 



3°4 



ENOCH ARDEN AND OTHER POEMS 



1 Take your own time, Annie, take 

your own time/ 
And Annie could have wept for pity 

of him ; 
And yet she held him on delayingly 
With many a scarce-believable excuse, 
Trying his truth and his long-suffer- 
ance, 
Till half another year had slipt away. 

By this the lazy gossips of the port, 
Abhorrent of a calculation crost, 470 
Began to chafe as at a personal wrong. 
Some thought that Philip did but trifle 

with her ; 
Some that she but held off to draw him 

on ; 
And others laugh' d at her and Philip 

too, 
As simple folk that knew not their 

own minds ; 
And one, in whom all evil fancies clung 
Like serpent eggs together, laughingly 
Would hint at worse in either. Her 

own son 
Was silent, tho' he often look'd his 

wish ; 
But evermore the daughter prest upon 

her 480 

To wed the man so dear to all of them 
And lift the household out of poverty ; 
And Philip's rosy face contracting 

grew 
Careworn and wan ; and all these 

things fell on her 
Sharp as reproach. 

At last one night it chanced 
That Annie could not sleep, but ear- 
nestly 
Pray'd for a sign, 'My Enoch, is he 
gone ? ' 
- Then compass'd round by the blind 
wall of night 
Brook'd not the expectant terror of her 

heart, 
Started from bed, and struck herself 
a light, 490 

Then desperately seized the holy Book, 
Suddenly set it wide to find a sign, 
Suddenly put her finger on the text, 
'Under the palm-tree.' That was no- 
thing to her, 
No meaning there ; she closed the Book 

and slept. 
When lo ! her Enoch sitting on a height, 



Under a palm-tree, over him the sun. 
' He is gone,' she thought, ' he is happy, 

he is singing 
Hosanna in the highest ; yonder shines 
The Sun of Righteousness, and these 

be palms 500 

Whereof the happy people strowing 

cried 
' ' Hosanna in the highest ["' Here she 

woke, 
Resolved, sent for him and said wildly 

to him, 
' There is no reason why we should 

not wed.' 
'Then for God's sake,' he answer'd, 

' both our sakes, 
So you will wed me, let it be at once.' 

So these were wed, and merrily rang 

the bells, 
Merrily rang the bells, and they were 

wed. 
But never merrily beat Annie's heart. 
A footstep seem'd to fall beside her 

path, 510 

She knew not whence ; a whisper on 

her ear, 
She knew not what ; nor loved she to 

be left 
Alone at home, nor ventured out alone. 
What ail'd her then that, ere she 

enter'd, often 
Her hand dwelt linger ingly on the 

latch, 
Fearing to enter ? Philip thought he 

knew : 
Such doubts and fears were common 

to her state, 
Being with child ; but when her child 

was born, 
Then her new child was as herself re- 

new'd, 
Then the new mother came about her 

heart, 520 

Then her good Philip washer all-in-all, 
And that mysterious instinct wholly 

died. 

And where was Enoch ? Prosper- 
ously sail'd 

The ship 'Good Fortune,' tho' at set- 
ting forth 

The Biscay, roughly ridging eastward, 
shook 

And almost overwhelm' d her, yet un- 
vext 



ENOCH ARDEN 



305 



She slipt across the summer of the 

world, 
Then after a long tumble about the 

Cape 
And frequent interchange of foul and 

fair, 
She passing thro' the summer world 

again, 530 

The breath of heaven came continually 
And sent her sweetly by the golden 

isles, 
Till silent in her oriental haven. 

There Enoch traded for himself, and 

bought 
Quaint monsters for the market of 

those times, 
A gilded dragon also for the babes. 

Less lucky her home- voyage : at 
first indeed 

Thro' many a fair sea-circle, day by 
day, 

Scarce-rocking, her full-busted figure- 
head 

Stared, o'er the ripple feathering from 
her bows : 540 

Then follow'd calms, and then winds 
variable, 

Then baffling, a long course of them ; 
and last 

Storm, such as drove her under moon- 
less heavens 

Till hard upon the cry of ' breakers ' 
came 

The crash of ruin, and the loss of 
all 

But Enoch an^ two others. Half the 
night, 

Buoy'd upon floating tackle and broken 
spars, 

These drifted, stranding on an isle at 
morn 

Rich, but the loneliest in a lonely sea. 

No want was there of human suste- 
nance, 550 

Soft fruitage, mighty nuts, and nour- 
ishing roots ; 

Nor save for pity was it hard to take 

The helpless life so wild that it was 
tame. 

There in a seaward-gazing mountain- 
gorge 

They built, and thatch'd with leaves 
of palm, a hut, 



Half hut, half native cavern. So the 
three, 

Set in this Eden of all plenteousness, 

Dwelt with eternal summer, ill-con- 
tent. 

For one, the youngest, hardly more 
than boy, 

Hurt in that night of sudden ruin 
and wreck, 5 6o 

Lay lingering out a five-years' death- 
in-life. 

They could not leave him. After he 
was gone, 

The two remaining found a fallen 
stem; 

And Enoch's comrade, careless of 
himself, 

Fire-hollowing this in Indian fashion, 
fell 

Sun-stricken, and that other lived 
alone. 

In those two deaths he read God's 
warning 'wait.' 

The mountain wooded to the peak, 

the lawns 
And winding glades high up like 

ways to heaven, 
The slender coco's drooping crown of 

plumes, 570 

The lightning flash of insect and of 

bird, 
The lustre of the long convolvuluses 
That coil'd around the stately stems, 

and ran 
Even to the limit of the land, the glows 
And glories of the broad belt of the 

world, — 
All these he saw ; but what he fain 

had seen 
He could not see, the kindly human 

face, 
Nor ever hear a kindly voice, but 

heard 
The myriad shriek of wheeling ocean- 
fowl, 
The league-long roller thundering oil 

the reef, 580 

The moving whisper of huge trees 

that branch'd 
And blossom'd in the zenith, or the 

sweep 
Of some precipitous rivulet to the 

wave, 
As d0WD the shore he ranged, or all 

day long 



3° 6 



ENOCH ARDEN AND OTHER POEMS 








4NTUOA/V~ DIMS SC 



© 



' A shipwreck'd sailor, waiting for a sail ' 



Sat often in the seaward-gazing gorge, 

A shipwreck'd sailor, waiting for a 
sail. 

No sail from day to day, but every 
day 

The sunrise broken into scarlet shafts 

Among the palms and ferns and pre- 
cipices; 

The blaze upon the waters to the 
east ; 590 

The blaze upon his island overhead ; 

The blaze upon the waters to the west ; 

Then the great stars that globed them- 
selves in heaven, 

The hollower-bellowing ocean, and 
again 

The scarlet shafts of sunrise — but no 
sail. 



There often as he watch'd or seem'd 

to watch, 
So still the golden lizard on him 

paused, 
A phantom made of many phantoms 

moved 
Before him haunting him, or he him- 
self 
Moved haunting people, things, and 

places, known 600 

Far in a darker isle beyond the 

line; 
The babes, their babble, Annie, the 

small house, 
The climbing street, the mill, the leafy 

lanes, 
The peacock yew-tree and the lonely 

Hall, 



ENOCH ARDEN 



307 



The horse he drove, the boat he sold, 

the chill 
November dawns and dewy-glooming 

downs, 
The gentle shower, the smell of dying 

leaves, 
And the low moan of leaden-color'd 

seas. 

Once likewise, in the ringing of his 

ears, 
Tho' faintly, merrily — far and far 

away — 610 

He heard the pealing of his parish 

bells ; 
Then, tho' he knew not wherefore, 

started up 
Shuddering, and when the beauteous 

hateful isle 
Return' d upon him, had not his poor 

heart 
Spoken with That which being every- 
where 
Lets none who speaks with Him seem 

all alone, 
Surely the man had died of solitude. 

Thus over Enoch's early-silvering 

head 
The sunny and rainy seasons came 

and went 
Year after year. His hopes to see his 

own, 620 

And pace the sacred old familiar fields, 
Not yet had perish'd, when his lonely 

doom 
Came suddenly to an end. Another 

ship — 
She wanted water — blown by baffling 

winds, 
Like the 'Good Fortune,' from her 

destined course, 
Stay'd by this isle, not knowing where 

she lay ; 
For since the mate had seen at early 

dawn 
Across a break on the mist-wreathen 

isle 
The silent water slipping from the 

hills, 
They sent a crew that landing burst 

away 630 

In search of stream or fount, and fill'd 

the shores 
With clamor. Downward from his 

mountain gorge 



Stept the long-hair'd, long-bearded 

solitary, 
Brown, looking hardly human, 

strangely clad, 
Muttering and mumbling, idiot-like 

it seem'd, 
With inarticulate rage, and making 

signs 
They knew not what ; and yet he led 

the way 
To where the rivulets of sweet water 

ran, 
And ever as he mingled with the crew, 
And heard them talking, his long- 

bounden tongue 640 

Was loosen'd, till he made them un- 
derstand ; 
Whom, when their casks were fill'd, 

they took aboard. 
And there the tale he utter'd brokenly, 
Scarce-credited at first but more and 

more, 
Amazed and melted all who listen'd 

to it; 
And clothes they gave him and free 

passage home, 
But oft he work'd among the rest and 

shook 
His isolation from him. None of these 
Came from his country, or could an- 
swer him, 
If question'd, aught of what he cared 

to know. ^ 650 

And dull the voyage was with long 

delays, 
The vessel scarce sea-worthy ; but 

evermore 
His fancy fled before the lazy wind 
Returning, till beneath a clouded moon 
He like a lover down thro' all his blood 
Drew in the dewy meadowy morning- 
breath 
Of England, blown across her ghostly 

wall. 
And that same morning officers and 

men 
Levied a kindly tax upon themselves. 
Pitying the lonely man, and gave him 

it; 
Then moving up the coast they landed 

him, 
Even in that harbor whence lie sail'd 

before. 

There Enoch spoke no word to any 
one. 



3 o8 



ENOCH ARDEN AND OTHER POEMS 



But homeward — home — what home? 

had he a home ? — 
His home, he walk'd. Bright was 

that afternoon, 
Sunny but chill ; till drawn thro' 

either chasm, 
Where either haven open'd on the 

deeps, 
Roll'd a sea-haze and whelm' d the 

world in gray, 
Cut off the length of highway on be- 
fore, 
And left but narrow breadth to left 

and right 6 7 o 

Of wither'd holt or tilth or pasturage. 
On the nigh-naked tree the robin piped 
Disconsolate, and thro' the dripping 

haze 
The dead weight of the dead leaf bore 

it down. 
Thicker the drizzle grew, deeper the 

gloom ; 
Last, as it seem'd, a great mist-blotted 

light 
Flared on him, and he came upon the 

place. 

Then down the long street having 

slowly stolen, 
His heart foreshadowing all calamity, 
His eyes upon the stones, he reach'd 

the home 680 

Where Annie lived and loved him, 

and his babes 
In those far-off seven happy years 

were born ; 
But finding neither light nor murmur 

there — 
A bill of sale gleam' d thro' the driz- 
zle — crept 
Still downward thinking, 'dead or 

dead to me!' 

Down to the pool and narrow wharf 

he went, 
Seeking a tavern which of old he knew, 
A front of timber-crost antiquity, 
So propt, worm-eaten, ruinously old, 
He thought it must have gone ; but 

he was gone 690 

Who kept it, and his widow Miriam 

Lane, 
With daily-dwindling profits held the 

house ; 
A haunt of brawling seamen once, but 

now 



Stiller, with yet a bed for wandering 

men. 
There Enoch rested silent many days. 

But Miriam Lane was good and gar- 
rulous, 

Nor let him be, but often breaking 
in, 

Told him, with other annals of the port, 

Not knowing — Enoch was so brown, 
so bow'd, 

So broken — all the story of his house : 

His baby's death, her growing pov- 
erty, 701 

How Philip put her little ones to 
school, 

And kept them in it, his long wooing 
her, 

Her slow consent and marriage, and 
the birth 

Of Philip's child ; and o'er his counte- 
nance 

No shadow past, nor motion. Any one, 

Regarding, well had deem'd he felt 
the tale 

Less than the teller; only when she 
closed, 

' Enoch, poor man, was cast away and 
lost,' 

He, shaking his gray head pathetically, 

Repeated muttering, ' cast away and 
lost;' 711 

Again in deeper inward whispers, 
' lost ! ' 

But Enoch yearn'd to see her face 

again : 
' If I might look on her sweet face 

again, 
And know that she is happy.' So the 

thought 
Haunted and harass' d him, and drove 

him forth, 
At evening when the dull November 

day 
Was growing duller twilight, to the 

hill. 
There he sat down gazing on all below ; 
There did a thousand memories roll 

upon him, 720 

Unspeakable for sadness. By and by 
The ruddy square of comfortable light, 
Far-blazing from the rear of Philip's 

house. 
Allured him, as the beacon-blaze al- 
lures 






ENOCH ARDEN 



309 



The bird of passage, till he madly 

strikes 
Against it and beats out his weary life. 

For Philip's dwelling fronted on the 

street, 
The latest house to landward ; but be- 
hind, 
With one small gate that open'd on 

the waste, 
Flourish' d a little garden square and 

walPd, 730 

And in it throve an ancient evergreen, 
A yew-tree, and all round it ran a 

walk 
Of shingle, and a walk divided it. 
But Enoch shunn'd the middle walk 

and stole 
Up by the wall, behind the yew ; and 

thence 
That which he better might have 

shunn'd, if griefs 
Like his have worse or better, Enoch 

saw. 

For cups and silver on the burnish' d 

board 
Sparkled and shone ; so genial was the 

hearth ; 
And on the right hand of the hearth 

he saw 740 

Philip, the slighted suitor of old 

times. 
Stout, rosy, with his babe across his 

knees ; 
And o'er her second father stoopt a 

girl, 
A later but a loftier Annie Lee, 
Fair-hair' d and tall, and from her 

lifted hand 
Dangled a length of ribbon and a 

ring 
To tempt the babe, who rear'd his 

creasy arms, 
Caught at and ever miss'd it, and they 

laugh'd ; 
And on the left hand of the hearth he 

saw 
The mother glancing often toward her 

babe, 750 

But turning now and then to speak 

with him, 
Her son, who stood beside her tall and 

strong, 
And saying that which pleased him, 

for he smiled. 



Now when the dead man come to 

life beheld 
His wife his wife no more, and saw 

the babe 
Hers, yet not his, upon the father's 

knee, 
And all the warmth, the peace, the 

happiness, 
And his own children tall and beauti- 
ful, 
And him, that other, reigning in his 

place, 
Lord of his rights and of his children's 

love — 760 

Then he, tho' Miriam Lane had told 

him all, 
Because things seen are mightier than 

things heard, 
Stagger' d and shook, holding the 

branch, and fear'd 
To send abroad a shrill and terrible 

cry, 
Which in one moment, like the blast 

of doom, 
Would shatter all the happiness of the 

hearth. 

He therefore turning softly like a 

thief, 
Lest the harsh shingle should grate 

underfoot, 
And feeling all along the garden- 

wal], 
Lest he should swoon and tumble and 

be found, 770 

Crept to the gate, and open'd it and 

closed, 
As lightly as a sick man's chamber- 
door, 
Behind him, and came out upon the 

waste. 

And there he would have knelt, but 

that his knees 
Were feeble, so that falling prone he 

dug 
His fingers into the wet earth, and 

pray'd : 

'Too hard to bear! why did they 

take me thence ? 
O God Almighty, blessed Saviour, 

Thou 
That didst uphold me on my lonelv 

isle, 
Uphold me, Father, in my lonelin 



3io 



ENOCH ARDEN AND OTHER POEMS 



A little longer ! aid me, give me 

strength 781 

Not to tell her, never to let her know. 
Help me not to break in upon her 

peace. 
My children too ! must I not speak to 

these ? 
They know me not. I should betray 

myself. 
Never! no father's kiss for me — the 

girl 
So like her mother, and the boy, my 

son/ 

There speech and thought and na- 
ture fail'd a little, 
And he lay tranced ; but when he rose 

and paced 
Back toward his solitary home again, 
All down the long and narrow street 
he went 791 

Beating it in upon his weary brain, 
As tho' it were the burthen of a song, 
'Not to tell her, never to let her 
know/ 

He was not all unhappy. His re- 
solve 

Upbore him, and firm faith, and ever- 
more 

Prayer from a living source within the 
will, 

And beating up thro' all the bitter 
world, 

Like fountains of sweet water in the 
sea, 

Kept him a living soul. ' This miller's 
wife,' 800 

He said to Miriam, 'that you spoke 
about, 

Has she no fear that her first husband 
lives V 

'Ay, ay, poor soul,' said Miriam, 'fear 
enow ! 

If you could tell her you had seen him 
dead, 

Why, that would be her comfort ; ' and 
he thought, 

' After the Lord has call'd me she shall 
know, 

I wait His time ; ' and Enoch set him- 
self, 

Scorning an alms, to work whereby to 
live. 

Almost to all things could he turn his 
hand. 



Cooper he was and carpenter, and 

wrought 810 

To make the boatmen fishing-nets, or 

help'd 
At lading and unlading the tall barks 
That brought the stinted commerce of 

those days, 
Thus earn'd a scanty living for himself. 
Yet since he did but labor for himself, 
Work without hope, there was not life 

in it 
Whereby the man could live ; and as 

the year 
Roll'd itself round again to meet the 

' day 
When Enoch had return'd, a languor 

came 
Upon him, gentle sickness, gradually 
Weakening the man, till he could do 

no more, 821 

But kept the house, his chair, and last 

his bed. 
And Enoch bore his weakness cheer- 
fully. 
For sure no gladlier does the stranded 

wreck 
See thro' the gray skirts of a lifting 

squall 
The boat that bears the hope of life 

approach 
To save the life despair'd of, than he 

saw 
Death dawning on him, and the close 

of all. 

For thro' that dawning gleam'd a 

kindlier hope 
On Enoch thinking, ' after I am gone, 
Then may she learn I loved her to the 

last/ 831 

He call'd aloud for Miriam Lane and 

said : 
' Woman, I have a secret — only swear, 
Before I tell you — swear upon the 

book 
Not to reveal it, till you see me dead/ 
'Dead/ clamor d the good woman, 

' hear him talk ! 
I warrant, man, that we shall bring 

you round/ 
1 Swear/ added Enoch sternly, ' on 

the book ; ' 
And on the book, half- frighted, Miriam 

swore. 
Then Enoch rolling his gray eyes 

upon her, 840 



ENOCH ARDEN 



3ii 



* Did you know Enoch Arden of this 

town ? ' 
' Know him ? ' she said, ' I knew him 

far away. 
Ay, ay, I mind him coming down the 

street ; 
Held his head high, and cared for no 

man, he.' 
Slowly and sadly Enoch answer' d 

her : 
' His head is low, and no man cares 

for him. 
I think I have not three days more to 

live ; 
I am the man/ At which the woman 

gave 
A half-incredulous, half-hysterical 

cry : 
' You Arden, you ! nay, — sure he 

was a foot 850 

Higher than you be.' Enoch said 

again : 
' My God has bow'd me down to what 

I am; 



My grief and solitude have broken 

me ; 
Nevertheless, know you that I am 

he 
Who married — but that name has 

twice been changed — 
I married her who married Philip Ray. 
Sit, listen.' Then he told her of his 

voyage, 
His wreck, his lonely life, his coming 

back, 
His gazing in on Annie, his resolve, 
And how he kept it. As the woman 

heard. 860 

Fast flow'd the current of her easy 

tears, 
While in her heart she yearn'd inces- 
santly 
To rush abroad all round the little 

haven, 
Proclaiming Enoch Arden and his 

woes ; 
But awed and promise-bounden she 

forbore, 




4NZMQtit'DMlSS» 



' Uphold me, Father, in my loneliness 
A little longer ! aid me, giye me strength ' 



312 



ENOCH ARDEN AND OTHER POEMS 



Saying only, ' See your bairns before 
you go ! 

Eh, let me fetch 'em, Arden,' and 
arose 

Eager to bring them down, for Enoch 
hung 

A moment on her words, but then re- 
plied : 

'Woman, disturb me not now at 
the last, 8 7 o 

But let me hold my purpose till I 
die. 

Sit down again ; mark me and under- 
stand, 

While I have power to speak. I 
charge you now, 

When you shall see her, tell her that I 
died 

Blessing her, praying for her, loving 
her; 

Save for the bar between us, loving 
her 

As when she laid her head beside my 
own. 

And tell my daughter Annie, whom I 
saw 

So like her mother, that my latest 
breath 

Was spent in blessing her and pray- 
ing for her. 880 

And tell my son that I died blessing 
him. 

And say to Philip that I blest him 
too ; 

He never meant us anything but good. 

But if my children care to see me 
dead, 

Who hardly knew me living, let them 
come, 

I am their father; but she must not 
come, 

For my dead face would vex her after- 
life. 

And now there is but one of all my 
blood 

Who will embrace me in the world-to- 
be. 

This hair is his, she cut it off and 
gave it, 890 

And I have borne it with me all these 
years, 

And thought to bear it with me to my 
grave ; 

But now my mind is changed, for I 
shall see him, 



My babe in bliss. Wherefore when I 
am gone, 

Take, give her this, for it may com- 
fort her ; 

It will moreover be a token to her 

That I am he.' 

He ceased ; and Miriam Lane 

Made such a voluble answer promis- 
ing all, 

That once again he roll'd his eyes upon 
her 

Repeating all he wish'd, and once 
again 9 oo 

She promised. 

Then the third night after this, 
While Enoch slumber'd motionless 

and pale, 
And Miriam watch' d and dozed at in- 
tervals, 
There came so loud a calling of the 

sea 
That all the houses in the haven rang. 
He woke, he rose, he spread his arms 

abroad, 
Crying with a loud voice, ' A sail ! a 

sail ! 
I am saved ; ' and so fell back and 

spoke no more. 

So past the strong heroic soul away. 
And when they buried him the little 
port 910 

Had seldom seen a costlier funeral. 

AYLMER'S FIELD 

1793 

Dust are our frames ; and, gilded 
dust, our pride 

Looks only for a moment whole and 
sound, 

Like that long buried body of the king, 

Found lying with his urns and orna- 
ments, 

Which at a touch of light, an air of 
heaven, 

Slipt into ashes, and was found no 
more. 

Here is a story which in rougher 
shape 
Came from a grizzled cripple, whom I 
saw 



AYLMER'S FIELD 



3*3 



Sunning himself in a waste field 

alone — 
Old, and a mine of memories — who 

had served, 10 

Long since, a bygone rector of the 

place, 
And been himself a part of what he 

told. 

Sir Aylmer Aylmer, that al- 
mighty man, 
The county God — in whose capacious 

hall, 
Hung with a hundred shields, the 

family tree 
Sprang from the midriff of a prostrate 

king — 
Whose blazing wyvern weathercock' d 

the spire, 
Stood from his walls and wing'd his 

entry-gates, 
And swang besides on many a windy 

sign — 
Whose eyes from under a pyramidal 

head 20 

Saw from his windows nothing save 

his own — 
What lovelier of his own had he than 

her, 
His only child, his Edith, whom he 

loved 
As heiress and not heir regretfully ? 
But ' he that marries her marries her 

name.' 
This fiat somewhat soothed himself 

and wife, 
His wife a faded beauty of the Baths, 
Insipid as the queen upon a card ; 
Her all of thought and bearing hardly 

more 
Than his own shadow in a sickly sun. 

A land of hops and poppy-mingled 

corn, 31 

Little about it stirring save a brook ! 
A sleepy land, where under the same 

wheel 
The same old rut would deepen year 

by year ; 
Where almost all the village had one 

name ; 
Where Aylmer followed Aylmer at 

the Hall 
And Averill Averill at the Rectory 
Thrice over ; so that Rectory and Hall, 
Bound in an immemorial intimacy, 



Were open to each other; tho' to 

dream 4 o 

That Love could bind them closer well 

had made 
The hoar hair of the baronet bristle up 
With horror, worse than had he heard 

his priest 
Preach an inverted scripture, sons of 

men, 
Daughters of God ; so sleepy was the t 

land. 

And might not Averill, had he will'd 
it so, 

Somewhere beneath his own low range 
of roofs, 

Have also set his many-shielded tree ? 

There was an Aylmer- Averill marriage 
once, 

When the red rose was redder than 
itself, 50 

And York's white rose as red as Lan- 
caster's, 

With wounded peace which each had 
prick'd to death. 

'Not proven,' Averill said, or laugh- 
ingly, 

' Some other race of Averills ' — proven 
or no, 

What cared he ? what, if other or the 
same? 

He lean'd not on his fathers but him- 
self. 

But Leolin, his brother, living oft 

With Averill, and a year or two before 

Call'd to the bar, but ever call'd away 

By one low voice to one hear neigh- 
borhood, 60 

Would often, in his walks with Edith, 
claim 

A distant kinship to the gracious blood 

That shook the heart of Edith hearing 
him. 

Sanguine he was ; a but less vivid 
hue 

Than of that islet in the chestnut- 
bloom 

Flamed in his cheek ; and eager eyes, 
that still 

Took joyful note of all things joyful, 
beam'd, 

Beneath a mane-like mass of rolling 
gold, 

Their best and brightest when they 
dwelt on hers, 



314 



ENOCH ARDEN AND OTHER POEMS 



Edith, whose pensive beauty, perfect 
else, 70 

But subject to the season or the mood, 

Shone like a mystic star between the 
less 

And greater glory varying to and fro, 

We know not wherefore ; bounteously 
made, 

And yet so finely, that a troublous 
• touch 

Thinn'd, or would seem to thin her in 
a day, 

A joyous to dilate, as toward the light. 

And these had been together from the 
first. 

Leolin's first nurse was, five years after, 
hers. 

So much the boy foreran ; but when 
his date 80 

Doubled her own, for want of play- 
mates, he — 

Since Averill was a decad and a half 

His elder, and their parents under- 
ground — 

Had tost his ball and flown his kite, 
and roll'd 

His hoop to pleasure Edith, with her 
dipt 

Against the rush of the air in the prone 
swing, 

Made blossom-ball or daisy-chain, ar- 
ranged 

Her garden, sow'd her name and kept 
it green 

In living letters, told her fairy-tales, 

Show'd her the fairy footings on the 
grass, 90 

The little dells of cowslip, fairy palms, 

The petty mare's-tail forest, fairy 
pines, 

Or from the tiny pitted target blew 

What look'd a flight of fairy arrows 
aim'd 

All at one mark, all hitting, make- 
believes 

For Edith and himself ; or else he 
forged, 

But that was later, boyish histories 

Of battle, bold adventure, dungeon, 
wreck, 

Flights, terrors, sudden rescues, and 
true love 

Crown' d after trial ; sketches rude and 
faint, 100 

But where a passion yet unborn per- 
haps 



Lay hidden as the music of the moon 

Sleeps in the plain eggs of the night- 
ingale. 

And thus together, save for college- 
times 

Or Temple-eaten terms, a couple, fair 

As ever painter painted, poet sang, 

Or heaven in lavish bounty moulded, 
grfw. 

And more* and more, the maiden woman- 
grown, v 

He wasted hours with Averill ; there, 
when first' 109 

The tented winter-field was broken up 

Into that phalanx of the summer spears 

That soon should wear the garland ; 
there again 

When burr and bine were gather' d ; 
lastly there 

At Christmas ; ever welcome at the 
Hall, 

On whose dull sameness his full tide 
of youth 

Broke with a phosphorescence charm- 
ing even 

My lady, and the baronet yet had 
laid 

No bar between them. Dull and self- 
involved, 

Tall and erect, but bending from his 
height 

With half -allowing smiles for all the 
world, 1 20 

And mighty courteous in the main — 
his pride 

Lay de eper than to wear it as his ring — 

He, like an xiylmer in his Aylmerism, 

Would care no more for Leolin's walk- 
ing with her 

Than for his old Newfoundland's, when 
they ran 

To loose him at the stables, for he rose 

Two-footed at the limit of his chain, 

Roaring to make a third ; and how 
should Love, 

Whom the cross- lightnings of four 
chance-met eyes 

Flash into fiery life from nothing, fol- 
low 130 

Such dear familiarities of dawn ? 

Seldom, but when he does, master of 
all. 

So these young hearts, not knowing 
that they loved, 
Not she at least, nor conscious of a bar 



AYLMER'S FIELD 



3i5 



Between them, nor by plight or "broken 

ring 
Bound, but an immemorial intimacy, 
Wander'd at will, and oft accompanied 
By Averill ; his, a brother's love, that 

hung 
With wings of brooding shelter o'er 

her peace, 
Might have been other, save for Leo- 

lin's — 140 

Who knows ? but so they wander'd, 

hour by hour 
Gather'd the blossom that re-bloom'd, 

and drank 
The magic cup that fill'd itself anew. 

A whisper half reveal'd her to her- 
self. 

For out beyond her lodges, where the 
brook 

Vocal, with here and there a silence,. 
ran 

By sallowy rims, arose the laborers' 
homes, 

A frequent haunt of Edith, on low 
knolls 

That dimpling died into each other, 
huts 

At random scatter'd, each a nest in 
bloom. 150 

Her art, her hand, her counsel, all had 
wrought 

About them. Here was one that, sum- 
'mer-blanch'd, 

Was parcel-bearded with the travel- 
ler's-joy 

In autumn, parcel ivy-clad ; and here 

The warm-blue breathings of a hid- 
den hearth 

Broke from a bower of vine and 
honeysuckle. 

One look'd all rose-tree, and another 
wore 

A close-set robe of jasmine sown with 
stars. 

This had a rosy sea of gillyflowers 

About it ; this, a milky -way on earth, 

Like visions in the Northern dreamer's 
heavens, 161 

A lily-avenue climbing to the doors ; 

One, almost to the martin-haunted 
eaves 

A summer burial deep in hollyhocks ; 

Each, its own charm ; and Edith's 
everywhere ; 

And Edith ever visitant with him, 



He but less loved than Edith, of her 

poor. 
For she — so lowly-lovely and so lov- 
ing, 
Queenly responsive when the loyal 

hand 
Rose from the clay it work'd in as she 

past, 170 

Not sowing hedgerow texts and pass- 
ing by, « 
Nor dealing goodly counsel from a 

height 
That makes the lowest hate it, but a 

voice 
Of comfort and an open hand of help, 
A splendid presence flattering the 

poor roofs 
Revered as theirs, but kindlier than 

themselves 
To ailing wife or wailing infancy 
Or old bedridden palsy, — was adored ; 
He, loved for her and for himself. A 

grasp 
Having the warmth and muscle of the 

heart, 180 

A childly way with children, and a 

laugh 
Ringing like proven golden coinage 

true, 
Were no false passport to that easy 

realm, 
Where once with Leolin at her side 

the girl, 
Nursing a child, and turning to the 

warmth 
The tender pink five -beaded baby-soles, 
Heard the good mother softly whisper, 

' Bless, 
God bless 'em ! marriages are made in 

heaven.' 

A flash of semi-jealousy clear'd it 

to her. 
My lady's Indian kinsman unan- 
nounced 19° 
With half a score of swarthy faces 

came. 
His own, tho' keen and bold ami sol 

dierly, 
Sear'd by the close ecliptic, was not 

fair ; 
Fairer his talk, a tongue that ruled 

the hour, 
Tho' seeming boastful. So when first 

he dasn'd 
Into the chronicle of a deedful d 



316 



ENOCH ARDEN AND OTHER POEMS 



Sir Aylmer half forgot his lazy smile 
Of patron, 'Good! my lady's kins- 
man ! good ! ' 198 
My lady with her fingers interlocked 
And rotatory thumbs on silken knees, 
Call'd all her vital spirits into each ear 
To listen ; unawares they flitted- off, 
Busying themselves about the flower- 
age 
That stood from out a stiff brocade in 

which, 
The meteor of a splendid season, she, 
Once with this kinsman, ah ! so long 

ago, 
Stept thro' the stately minuet of those 

days. 
But Edith's eager fancy hurried with 

him 
Snatch' d thro' the perilous passes of 

his life ; 
Till Leolin, ever watchful of her eye, 
Hated him with a momentary hate. 211 
Wife-hunting, as the rumor ran, was 

he. 
I know not, for he spoke not, only 

shower'd 
His oriental gifts on every one 
And most on Edith. Like a storm he 

came, 
And shook the house, and like a storm 
he went. 

Among the gifts he left her — pos- 
sibly 

He flow'd and ebb'd uncertain, to re- 
turn 

When others had been tested — there 
was one, 

A dagger, in rich sheath with jewels 
on it 220 

Sprinkled about in gold that branch' d 
itself 

Fine as ice -ferns on January panes 

Made by a breath. I know not whence 
at first, 

Nor of what race, the work; but as 
he told 

The story, storming a hill-fort of 
thieves 

He got it ; for their captain after fight, 

His comrades having fought their last 
below, 

Was climbing up the valley, at whom 
he shot. 

Down from the beetling crag to which 
he clung 



Tumbled the tawny rascal at his feet, 
This dagger with him, which, when 

now admired 231 

By Edith whom his pleasure was to 

please, 
At once the costly Sahib yielded to 

her. 

And Leolin, coming after he was 

gone, 
Tost over all her presents petulantly ; 
And when she show'd the wealthy 

scabbard, saying, 
'Look what a lovely piece of work- 
manship ! ' 
Slight was his answer, ' Well — I care 

not for it/ 
Then playing with the blade he prick'd 

his hand, 
' A gracious gift to give a lady, this ! ' 
' But would it be more gracious,' ask'd 

the girl, 241 

1 Were I to give this gift of his to one 
That is no lady ? ' ' Gracious ? No,' 

said he. 
'Me? — but I cared not for it. O, 

pardon me, 
I seem to be ungraciousness itself.' 
'Take it,' she added sweetly, ' tho' 

his gift ; 
For I am more ungracious even than 

you, 
I care not for it either ; ' and he said. 
' Why, then I love it ; ' but Sir Aylmer 

past, 
And neither loved nor liked the thing 

he heard. 250 

The next day came a neighbor. 

Blues and reds 
They talk'd of ; blues were sure of it, 

he thought ; 
Then of the latest fox — where started 

— kill'd 
In such a bottom. 'Peter had the 

brush, 
My Peter, first ; ' and did Sir Aylmer 

know 
That great pock-pitten fellow had 

been caught ? 
Then made his pleasure echo, hand to 

hand, 
And rolling as it were the substance 

of it 
Between his palms a moment up and 

down — 



AYLMER'S FIELD 



3i7 



1 The birds were warm, the birds were 

warm upon him ; 260 

We have him now ; ' and had Sir Ayl- 

mer heard — 
Nay, but he must — the land was 

ringing of it — 
This blacksmith border-marriage — 

one they knew — 
Raw from the nursery — who could 

trust a child ? 
That cursed France with her egalities ! 
And did Sir Aylmer — deferentially 
With nearing chair and lower'd accent 

— think — 
For people talk'd — that it was wholly 

wise 
To let that handsome fellow Averill 

walk 
So freely with his daughter ? people 

talk'd — 270 

The boy might get a notion into 

him ; 
The girl might be entangled ere she 

knew. 
Sir Aylmer Aylmer slowly stiffening 

spoke : 
'The girl and boy, sir, know their 

differences ! ' 
'Good/ said his friend, 'but watch!' 

and he, ' Enough, 
More than enough, sir ! I can guard 

my own/ 
They parted, and Sir Aylmer Aylmer 

watch'd. 

Pale, for on her the thunders of the 

house 
Had fallen first, was Edith that same 

night ; 
Pale as the Jephtha's daughter, a 

rough piece 280 

Of early rigid color, under which 
Withdrawing by the counter door to 

that 
Which Leolin open'd, she cast back 

upon him 
A piteous glance, and vanish'd. He, 

as one 
Caught in a burst of unexpected storm, 
And pelted with outrageous epithets, 
Turning beheld the Powers of the 

House 
On either side the hearth, indignant ; 

her, 
Cooling her false cheek with a feather 

fan, 



Him, glaring, by his own stale devil 

spurr'd, 290 

And, like a beast hard-ridden, breath- 
ing hard. 
'Ungenerous, dishonorable, base, 
Presumptuous ! trusted as he was with 

her, 
The sole succeeder to their wealth, 

their lands, 
The last remaining pillar of their 

house, 
The one transmitter of their ancient 

name, 
Their child.' 'Our child!' 'Our 

heiress ! ' ' Ours ! ' for still, 
Like echoes from beyond a hollow, 

came 
Her sicklier iteration. Last he said: 
' Boy, mark me ! for your fortunes 

are to make. 300 

I swear you shall not make them out 

of mine. 
ISTow inasmuch as you have practised 

on her, 
Perplext her, made her half forget 

herself, 
Swerve from her duty to herself and 

us — 
Things in an Aylmer deem'd impossi- 
ble, 
Far as we track ourselves — I say that 

this — 
Else I withdraw favor and counte- 
nance 
From you and yours for ever — shall 

you do. 
Sir, when you see her — but you shall 

not see her — 
No, you shall write, and not to her, 

but me ; 310 

And you shall say that having spoken 

with me, 
And after look'd into yourself, you 

find 
That you meant nothing — as indeed 

you know 
That you meant nothing. Such a 

match as this ! 
Impossible, prodigious!' These were 

words, 
As meted by his measure o\' himself, 
Arguing boundless forbearance : after 

which, 
And Leolin'shorror-strieken answer, ' 1 
So foul a traitor to myself and her ' 
Never, O, never !' for about as long 



3i8 



ENOCH ARDEN AND OTHER POEMS 



As the wind-hover hangs in balance, 
paused 321 

Sir Aylmer reddening from the storm 
within, 

Then broke all bonds of courtesy, and 
crying, 

' Boy, should I find you by my doors 



My men shall lash you from them like 

a dog; 
Hence ! ' with a sudden execration 

drove 
The footstool from before him, and 

arose ; 
So, stammering 'scoundrel' out of 

teeth that ground 
As in a dreadful dream, while Leolin 

still 
Retreated half-aghast, the fierce old 

man 330 

Follow'd, and under his own lintel 

stood 
Storming with lifted hands, a hoary 

face 
Meet for the reverence of the hearth, 

but now, 
Beneath a pale and unimpassion'd 

moon, 
Vext with unworthy madness, and 

deform' d. 

Slowly and conscious of the rageful 

eye 
That watch'd him, till he heard the 

ponderous door 
Close, crashing with long echoes thro' 

the land, 
Went Leolin ; then, his passions all in 

flood 
And masters of his motion, furiously 
Down thro' the bright lawns to his 

brother's ran, 341 

And foam'd away his heart at Aver- 
ill' s ear ; 
Whom Averill solaced as he might, 

amazed : 
The man was his, had been his father's 

friend ; 
He must have seen, himself had seen 

it long ; 
He must have known, himself had 

known ; besides, 
He never yet had set his daughter 

forth 
Here in the woman-markets of the 

west, 



Where our Caucasians let themselves 

be sold. 
Some one, he thought, had slander'd 

Leolin to him. 35 o 

'Brother, for I have loved you more 

as son 
Than brother, let me tell you : I my- 
self — 
What is their pretty saying? jilted, is 

it? 
Jilted I was ; I say it for your peace. 
Pain'd, and, as bearing in myself the 

shame 
The woman should have borne, hu- 
miliated, 
I lived for years a stunted sunless 

life; 
Till after our good parents past away 
Watching your growth, I seem'd again 

to grow. 359 

Leolin, I almost sin in envying you. 
The very whitest lamb in all my fold 
Loves you ; I know her ; the worst 

thought she has 
Is whiter even than her pretty hand. 
She must prove true ; for, brother, 

where two fight 
The strongest wins, and truth and 

love are strength, 
And you are happy ; let her parents 

be.' 

But Leolin cried out the more upon 

them — 
Insolent, brainless, heartless! heiress, 

wealth, 
Their wealth, their heiress ! wealth 

enough was theirs 
For twenty matches. Were he lord 

of this, 370 

Why, twenty boys and girls should 

marry on it, 
And forty blest ones bless him, and 

himself 
Be wealthy still, ay, wealthier. He 

believed 
This filthy marriage-hindering Mam- 
mon made 
The harlot of the cities ; Nature crost 
Was mother of the foul adulteries 
That saturate soul with body. Name, 

too ! name, 
Their ancient name! they might be 

proud ; its worth 
Was being Edith's. Ah, how pale 

she had look'd 



AYLMER'S FIELD 



3*9 




Aylmer Hall 



Darling, to-night ! they must have 
rated her 380 

Beyond all tolerance. These old 
pheasant-lords, 

These partridge-breeders of a thou- 
sand years, 

Who had mildew' d in their thousands, 
doing nothing 

Since Egbert — why, the greater their 
disgrace ! 

Fall back upon a name ! rest, rot in 
that ! 

Not keep it noble, make it nobler ? 
fools, 

With such a vantage-ground for noble- 
ness ! 

He had known a man, a quintessence 
of man, 

The life of all — who madly loved — 
and he, 

Thwarted by one of these old father- 
fools, 390 

Had rioted his life out, and made an 
end. 



He would not do it ! her sweet face 

and faith 
Held him from that ; but he had pow- 
ers, he knew it. 
Back would he to his studies, make a 

name, 
Name, fortune too ; the world should 

ring of him, 
To shame these mouldy Aylmers in 

their graves. 
Chancellor, or what is greatest would 

he be — 
l O brother, I am grieved to learn 

your grief — 
Give me my fling, and let me say my 

say.' 

At which, like one that sees his own 
excess, 400 

And easily forgives it as his own, 
He laugh'd, and then was mute, but 

presently 
Wept like a storm ; and honest Aver- 
ill, seeing 



3 2 ° 



ENOCH ARDEN AND OTHER POEMS 



How low his brother's mood had fallen, 

fetch' d 
His richest bee's- wing from a binn re- 
served 
For banquets, praised the waning red, 

and told 
The vintage — when this Aylmer came 

of age — 
Then drank and past it ; till at length 

the two, 
Tho' Leolin flamed and fell again, 

agreed 
That much allowance must be made 

for men. 410 

After an angry dream this kindlier 

glow 
Faded with morning, but his purpose 

held. 

Yet once by night again the lovers 

met, 
A perilous meeting under the tall 

pines 
That darken' d all the northward of 

her Hall. 
Him, to her meek and modest bosom 

prest 
In agony, she promised that no force, 
Persuasion, no, nor death could alter 

her ; 
He, passionately hopef uller, would go, 
Labor for his own Edith, and return 
In such a sunlight of prosperity 421 
He should not be rejected. 'Write 

to me ! 
They loved me, and because I love 

their child 
They hate me. There is war between 

us, dear, 
Which breaks all bonds but ours ; we 

must remain 
Sacred to one another/ So they 

talk'd, 
Poor children, for their comfort. The 

wind blew, 
The rain of heaven and their own bit- 
ter tears, 
Tears and the careless rain of heaven, 

mixt 
Upon their faces, as they kiss'd each 

other 430 

In darkness, and above them roar'd 

the pine. 



So Leolin went; 
ourselves 



and as we task 



To learn a language known but smat- 
teringly 

In phrases here and there at random, 
toil'd 

Mastering the lawless science of our 
law, 

That codeless myriad of precedent, 

That wilderness of single instances, 

Thro' which a few, by wit or fortune 
led, 

May beat a pathway out to wealth 
and fame. 

The jests, that flash'd about the plead- 
er's room, 440 

Lightning of the hour, the pun, the 
scurrilous tale, — 

Old scandals buried now seven decads 
deep 

In other scandals that have lived and 
died, 

And left the living scandal that shall 
die — 

Were dead to him already ; bent as he 
was 

To make disproof of scorn, and strong 
in hopes, 

And prodigal of all brain-labor he, 

Charier of sleep, and wine, and exer- 
cise, 

Except when for a breathing- while at 
eve, 

Some niggard fraction of an hour, he 
ran 450 

Beside the river-bank. And then in- 
deed 

Harder the times were, and the hands 
of power 

Were bloodier, and the according 
hearts of men 

Seem'd harder too ; but the soft river- 
breeze, 

Which fann'd the gardens of that 
rival rose 

Yet fragrant in a heart remembering 

His former talks with Edith, on him 
breathed 

Far purelier in his rushings to and 
fro, 

After his books, to flush his blood with 
air, 

Then to his books again. My lady's 
cousin, 460 

Half -sickening of his pension'd after- 
noon, 

Drove in upon the student once % or 
twice, 



AYLMER'S FIELD 



321 



Ran a Malayan amuck against the 

times. 
Had golden hopes for France and all 

mankind, 
Answer' d all queries touching those at 

home 
With a heaved shoulder and a saucy 

smile, 
And fain had haled him out into the 

world, 
And air'd him there. His nearer 

friend would say, 
' Screw not the chord too sharply lest 

it snap.' 
Then left alone he pluck'd her dagger 

forth 470 

From where his worldless heart had 

kept it warm, 
Kissing his vows upon it like a knight. 
And wrinkled benchers often talk'd of 

him 
Approvingly, and prophesied his rise ; 
For heart, I think, help'd head. Her 

letters too, 
Tho' far between, and coming fitfully 
Like broken music, written as she 

found 
Or made occasion, being strictly 

watch'd, 
Charm' d him thro' every labyrinth till 

he saw 
An end, a hope, a light breaking upon 

him. 480 

But they that cast her spirit into 
flesh, 

Her worldly-wise begetters, plagued 
themselves 

To sell her, those good parents, for her 
good. 

Whatever eldest-born of rank or wealth 

Might lie within their compass, him 
they lured 

Into their net made pleasant by the 
baits 

Of gold and beauty, wooing him to 
woo. 

So month by month the noise about 
their doors, 

And distant blaze of those dull ban- 
quets, made 

The nightly wirer of their innocent 
hare 490 

Falter before he took it. All in vain. 

Sullen, defiant, pitying, wroth, re- 
turned 



Leolin's rejected rivals from their suit 

So often, that the folly taking wings 

Slipt o'er those lazy limits down the 
wind 

With rumor, and became in other 
fields 

A mockery to the yeomen over ale. 

And laughter to their lords. But those 
at home, 

As hunters round a hunted creature 
draw 

The cordon close and closer toward 
the death, 5 oo 

Narrow' d her goings out and comings 
in ; 

Forbade her first the house of Averill, 

Then closed her access to the wealth- 
ier farms, 

Last from her own home-circle of the 
poor 

They barr'd her. Yet she bore it, yet 
her cheek 

Kept color — wondrous ! but, O mys- 
tery ! 

What amulet drew her down to that 
old oak, 

So old, that twenty years before, a 
part 

Falling had let appear the brand of 
John — 

Once grove-like, each huge arm a tree, 
but now 510 

The broken base of a black tower, a 
cave 

Of touchwood, with a single flourish- 
ing spray. 

There the manorial lord too curiously 

Raking in that millennial touchwood- 
dust 

Found for himself a bitter treasure- 
trove ; 

Burst his own wyvern on the seal, and 
read 

Writhing a letter from his child, tor 
which 

Came at the moment Leolin's emis- 
sary, 

A crippled lad, and coming turn'd to 

fly, 

But scared with threats ot jail and 
halter gave 5* 

To him that iuster'd his poor parish 
wits 

The letter which he brought, and 
swore besides 

To play their go-between as heretofore 



322 



EXOCH ARDEN AND OTHER POEMS 



Nor let them know themselves be- 
tray'd ; and then, 

Soul-stricken at their kindness to him, 
went 

Hating his own lean heart and miser- 
able. 

Thenceforward oft from out a des- 
pot dream 

The father panting woke, and oft, as 
dawn 

Aroused the black republic on his 
elms, 

Sweeping the froth-fly from the fescue 
brush' d 530 

Thro' the dim meadow toward his 
treasure-trove, 

Seized it, took home, and to my lady, 
— who made 

A downward crescent of her minion 
mouth, 

Listless in all despondence, — read ; 
and tore, 

As if the living passion symboll'd 
there 

Were living nerves to feel the rent ; 
and burnt, 

Now chafing at his own great self de- 
fied, 

Now striking on huge stumbling- 
blocks of scorn 

In babyisms and dear diminutives 

Scattered all over the vocabulary 540 

Of such a love as like a chidden child, 

After much wailing, hush'd itself at 
last 

Hopeless of answer. Then tho' Aver- 
ill wrote 

And bade him with good heart sus- 
tain himself — 

All would be well — the lover heeded 
not, 

But passionately restless came and 
went, 

And rustling once at night about the 
place, 

There by a keeper shot at, slightly 
hurt, 

Raging return' d. Nor was it well for 
her 

Kept to the garden now, and grove of 
pines, 550 

Watch'd even there ; and one was set 
to watch 

The watcher, and Sir Aylmer watch'd 
them all, 



Yet bitterer from his readings. Once 

indeed, 
Warm'd with his wines, or taking 

pride in her, 
She look'd so sweet, he kiss'd her ten- 
derly, 
Not knowing what possess'd him. 

That one kiss 
Was Leolin's one strong rival upon 

earth ; 
Seconded, for my lady follow'd suit, 
Seem'd hope's returning rose ; and 

then ensued 
A Martin's summer of his faded 

love, 560 

Or ordeal by kindness. After this 
He seldom crost his child without a 

sneer ; 
The mother flow'd in shallower acri- 
monies, 
Never one kindly smile, one kindly 

word ; 
So that the gentle creature shut from 

all 
Her charitable use, and face to face 
With twenty months of silence, slowly 

lost, 
Nor greatly cared to lose, her hold on 

life. 
Last some low fever ranging round to 

spy 
The weakness of a people or a 

house, 570 

Like flies that haunt a wound, or deer, 

or men, 
Or almost all that is, hurting the 

hurt — 
Save Christ as we believe him — found 

the girl 
And flung her down upon a couch of 

fire, 
Where careless of the household faces 

near, 
And crying upon the name of Leolin, 
She, and with her the race of Aylmer, 

past. 

Star to star vibrates light ; may soul 

to soul 
Strike thro' a finer element of her own ? 
So, — from afar, — touch as at once ? 

or why 580 

That night, that moment, when she 

named his name, 
Did the keen shriek, ' Yes, love, yes, 

Edith, yes,' 




AYLMER'S FIELD 



323 



Shrill, till the comrade of his chambers 

woke, 
And came upon him half -arisen from 

sleep, 
With a weird bright eye, sweating and 

trembling, 
His hair as it were crackling into flames, 
His body half flung forward in pur- 
suit, 
And his long arms stretch' d as to grasp 

a flyer. 
Nor knew he wherefore he had made 

the cry ; 
And being much befool'd and idi- 

oted 590 

By the rough amity of the other, 

sank 
As into sleep again. The second day, 
My lady's Indian kinsman rushing in, 
A breaker of the bitter news from 

home, 
Found a dead man, a letter edged 

with death 
Beside him, and the dagger which 

himself 
Gave Edith, redden' d with no bandit's 

blood ; 
'From Edith' was engraven on the 

blade. 

Then Averill went and gazed upon 
his death. 

And when he came again, his flock be- 
lieved — 600 

Beholding how the years which are 
not Time's 

Had blasted him — that many thou- 
sand days 

Were dipt by horror from his term of 
life. 

Yet the sad mother, for the second 
death 

Scarce touch'd her thro' that nearness 
of the first, 

And being used to find her pastor 
texts, 

Sent to the harrow'd brother, praying 
him 

To speak before the people of her child, 

And fixt the Sabbath. Darkly that 
day rose. 

Autumn's mock sunshine of the faded 
woods 610 

Was all the life of it ; for hard on these, 

A breathless burthen of low-folded 
heavens 



Stifled and chill'd at once ; but every 

roof 
Sent out a listener. Many too had 

known 
Edith among the hamlets round, and 

since 
The parents' harshness and the hapless 

loves 
And double death were widely mur- 
mur' d, left 
Their own gray tower, or plain-faced 

tabernacle, 
To hear him ; all in mourning these, 

and those 
With blots of it about them, ribbon, 

glove, 620 

Or kerchief ; while the church, — one 

night, except 
For greenish glimmerings thro' the 

lancets, — made 
Still paler the pale head of him, who 

tower' d 
Above them, with his hopes in either 

grave. 

Long o'er his bent brows linger'd 

Averill, 
His face magnetic to the hand from 

which 
Livid he pluck'd it forth, and labor'd 

thro' 
His brief prayer-prelude, gave the 

verse, 'Behold, 
Your house is left unto you desolate ! ' 
But lapsed into so long a pause again 
As half amazed, half frighted, all his 

flock ; 631 

Then from his height and loneliness of 

grief 
Bore down in flood, and dash'd his 

angry heart 
Against the desolations of the world. 

Never since our bad earth became 
one sea, 

Which rolling o'er the palaces of the 
proud, 

And all but those who knew the living 
God — 

Eight that were left to make a purer 
world — 

When since had flood, fire, earthquake, 
thunder, wrought 

Such waste and havoc as the idola- 
tries • 640 

Which from the low light of mortality 



324 



ENOCH ARDEN AND OTHER POEMS 



Shot up their shadows to the heaven 

of heavens, 
And worshipt their own darkness in 

the Highest ? 
'Gash thyself, priest, and honor thy 

brute Baal, 
And to thy worst self sacrifice thyself, 
For with* thy worst self hast thou 

clothed thy God. 
Then came a Lord in no wise like to 

Baal. 
The babe shall lead the lion. Surely 

now 
The wilderness shall blossom as the 

rose. 
Crown thyself, worm, and worship 

thine own lusts ! — 650 

No coarse and blockish God of acreage 
Stands at thy gate for thee to grovel 

to — 
Thy God is far diffused in noble groves 
And princely halls, and farms, and 

flowing lawns, 
And heaps of living gold that daily 

grow, 
And title-scrolls and gorgeous herald- 
ries. 
In such a shape dost thou behold thv 

God. 
Thou wilt not gash thy flesh for him; 

for thine 
Fares richly, in fine linen, not a hair 
Ruffled upon the scarf skin, even while 
The deathless ruler of thy dying house 
Is wounded to the death that cannot 

die ; 662 

And tho' thou numberest with the 

followers 
Of One who cried, "Leave all and 

follow me." 
Thee therefore with His light about 

thy feet, 
Thee with His message ringing in thine 

ears, 
Thee shall thy brother man, the Lord 

from heaven, 
Born of a village girl, carpenter's son, 
Wonderful, Prince of Peace, the 

Mighty God, 
Count the more base idolater of the 

two ; 670 

Crueller, as not passing thro' the fire 
Bodies, but souls — thy children's — 

thro' the smoke, 
The blight of low desires — darkening 

thine own 



To thine own likeness; or if one of 
these, 

Thy better born unhappily from thee, 

Should, as by miracle, grow straight 
and fair — 

Friends, I was bid to speak to such a 
one 

By those who most have cause to sor- 
row for her — 

Fairer than Rachel by the palmy well. 

Fairer than Ruth among the fields of 
corn, 680 

Fair as the Angel that said " Hail ! " 
she seem'd, 

Who entering fill'd the house with sud- 
den light. 

For so mine own was brighten'd — 
where indeed 

The roof so lowly but that beam of 
heaven 

Dawn'd sometime thro' the doorway ? 
whose the babe 

Too ragged to be fondled on her lap, 

Warm'd at her bosom ? The poor child 

- of shame, 

The common care whom no one cared 
for, leapt 

To greet her, wasting his forgotten 
heart, 

As with the mother he had never 
known, 690 

In gambols ; for her fresh and inno- 
cent eyes 

Had such a star of morning in their 
blue, 

That all neglected places of the field 

Broke into nature's music when they 
saw her. 

Low was^her voice, but won mysteri- 
ous way 

Thro' the seal'd ear to which a louder 
one 

Was all but silence — free of alms her 
hand — 

The hand that robed your cottage- 
walls with flowers 

Has often toil'd to clothe your little 
ones ; 

How often placed upon the sick man's 
brow 700 

Cool'd it, or laid his feverish pillow 
smooth ! 

Had you one sorrow and she shared it 
not? 

One burthen and she would not lighten 
it? 



AYLMER'S FIELD 



325 



One spiritual doubt she did not soothe ? 
Or when some heat of difference spar- 
kled out, 
How sweetly would she glide between 

your wraths, 
And steal you from each other ! for 

she walk'd 
Wearing the light yoke of that Lord 

of love 
Who still'd the rolling wave of Galilee ! 
And one — of him I was not bid to 

speak — 710 

Was always with her, whom you also 

knew. 
Him too you loved, for he was worthy 

love. 
And these had been together from the 

first ; 
They might have been together till 

the last. 
Friends, this frail bark of ours, when 

sorely tried, 
May wreck itself without the pilot's 

guilt, 
Without the captain's knowledge ; 

hope with me. 
Whose shame is that, if he went hence 

with shame ? 
Xor mine the fault, if losing both of 

these 
I cry to vacant chairs and widow' d 

walls, 720 

"My house is left unto me desolate." ' 

While thus he spoke, his hearers 
wept ; but some, 

Sons of the glebe, with other frowns 
than those 

That knit themselves for summer 
shadow, scowl' d 

At their great lord. He, when it 
seem'd he saw 

No pale sheet-lightnings from afar, 
but fork'd 

Of the near storm, and aiming at his 
head, 

Sat anger- charm' d from sorrow, sol- 
dier-like, 

Erect ; but when the preacher's ca- 
dence flow'd 

Softening thro' all the gentle attri- 
butes 730 

Of his lost child, the wife, who watch'd 
his face, 

Paled at a sudden twitch of his iron 
mouth ; 



And ' O, pray God that he hold up ! ' 

she thought, 
' Or surely I shall shame myself and 

him.' 

'Nor yours the blame — for who 
beside your hearths 

Can take her place — if echoing me 
you cry 

' ' Our house is left unto us desolate " ? 

But thou, O thou that killest, hadst 
thou known, 

O thou that stonest, hadst thou under- 
stood 

The things belonging to thy peace and 
ours ! 740 

Is there no prophet but the voice that 
calls 

Doom upon kings, or in the waste "Re- 
pent " ? 

Is not our own child on the narrow 
way, 

Who down to those that saunter in 
the broad 

Cries, " Come up hither," as a prophet 
to us ? 

Is there no stoning save with flint and 
rock ? 

Yes, as the dead we weep for testify — 

No desolation but by sword and fire ? 

Yes, as your moanings witness, and 
myself 

Am lonelier, darker, earthlier for my 
loss. 750 

Give me your prayers, for he is past 
your prayers, 

Not past the living fount of pity in 
heaven. 

But I that thought myself long-suf- 
fering, meek, 

Exceeding ' ' poor in spirit " — how the 
words . 

Have twisted back upon themselves, 
and mean 

Vileness, we are grown so proud — I 
wish'd my voice 

A rushing tempest of the wrath of 
God 

To blow these sacrifices thro' the 
world — 

Sent like the twelve-divided concubine 

To inflame the tribes; but there- 
out yonder — earth 760 

Lightens from her own central hell — 
O, there 

The red fruit of an old idolatn 



326 



ENOCH ARDEN AND OTHER POEMS 



The heads of chiefs and princes fall 
so fast, 

They cling together in the ghastly 
sack — 

The land all shambles — naked mar- 
riages 

Flash from the bridge, and ever- 
murder'd France, 

By shores that darken with the gather- 
ing wolf, 

Runs in a river of blood to the sick 
sea. 

Is this a time to madden madness then ? 

Was this a time for these to flaunt 
their pride ? 770 

May Pharaoh's darkness, folds as 
dense as those 

Which hid the Holiest from the peo- 
ple's eyes 

Ere the great death, shroud this great 
sin from all ! 

Doubtless our narrow world must 
canvass it. 

O, rather pray for those and pity 
them, 

Who, thro' their own desire accom- 
pli sh'd, bring 

Their own gray hairs with sorrow to 
the grave — 

Who broke the bond which they de- 
sired to break, 

Which else had link'd their race with 
times to come — 

Who wove coarse webs to snare her 
purity, 780 

Grossly contriving their dear daugh- 
ter's good — 

Poor souls, and knew not what they 
did, but sat 

Ignorant, devising their own daugh- 
ter's death ! 

May not that earthly chastisement 
suffice ? 

Have not our love and reverence left 
them bare ? 

Will not another take their heritage ? 

Will there be children's laughter in 
their hall 

For ever and for ever, or one stone 

Left on another, or is it a light thing 

That I, their guest, their host, their 
ancient friend, 79 o 

I made by these the last of all my 
race, 

Must cry to these the last of theirs, as 
cried 



Christ ere His agony to those that 
swore 

Not by the temple but the gold, and 
made 

Their own traditions God, and slew 
the Lord, 

And left their memories a world's 
curse — "Behold, 

Your house is left unto you deso- 
late " ? ' 

Ended he had not, but she brook'd 
no more ; 

Long since her heart had beat remorse- 
lessly, 

Her crampt-up sorrow pain'd her, and 
a sense 800 

Of meanness in her unresisting life. 

Then their eyes vext her ; for on en- 
tering 

He had cast the curtains of their seat 
aside — 

Black velvet of the costliest — she her- 
self 

Had seen to that. Fain had she closed 
them now, 

Yet dared not stir to do it, only 
near'd 

Her husband inch by inch, but when 
she laid, 

Wifelike, her hand in one of his, he 
veil'd 

His face with the other, and at once, 
as falls 

A creeper when the prop is broken, 
fell 810 

The woman shrieking at his feet, and 
swoon'd. 

Then her own people bore along the 
nave 

Her pendent hands, and narrow mea- 
gre face 

Seam'd with the shallow cares of fifty 
years. 

And her the lord of all the landscape 
round 

Even to its last horizon, and of all 

Who peer'd at him so keenly, follow' d 
out 

Tall and erect, but in the middle aisle 

Reel'd, as a footsore ox in crowded 
ways 

Stumbling across the market to his 
death, 820 

Unpitied ; for he groped as blind, and 
seem'd 



SEA DREAMS 



3 2 7 



Always about to fall, grasping the 

pews 
And oaken finials till he touch' d the 

door ; 
Yet to the lychgate, where his chariot 

stood, 
Strode from the porch, tall and erect 

again. 

But nevermore did either pass the 
gate 

Save under pall with bearers. In one 
month, 

Thro' weary and yet ever wearier 
hours, 

The childless mother went to seek her 
child ; 

And when he felt the silence of his 
house 830 

About him, and the change and not 
the change, 

And those fixt eyes of painted ances- 
tors 

Staring for ever from their gilded 
walls 

On him their last descendant, his own 
head 

Began to droop, to fall. The man 
became 

Imbecile ; his one word was ' deso- 
late/ 

Dead for two years before his death 
was he ; 

But when the second Christmas came, 
escaped 

His keepers, and the silence which he 
felt, 

To find a deeper in the narrow gloom 

By wife and child ; nor wanted at his 
end 841 

The dark retinue reverencing death 

At golden thresholds ; nor from tender 
hearts, 

And those who sorrow'd o'er a van- 
ish' d race, 

Pity, the violet on the tyrant's grave. 

Then the great Hall was wholly 
broken down, 

And the broad woodland parcell'd 
into farms ; 

And where the two contrived their 
daughter's good, 

Lies the hawk's cast, the mole has 
made his run, 

The hedgehog underneath the plan- 
tain bores, 850 



The rabbit fondles his own harmless 

face, 
The slow- worm creeps, and the thin 

weasel there 
Follows the mouse, and all is open 

field. 

SEA DREAMS 

A city clerk, but gently born and 

bred ; 
His wife, an unknown artist's orphan 

child — 
One babe was theirs, a Margaret, 

three years old. 
They, thinking that her clear german- 
der eye 
Droopt in the giant-fact oried city- 

gloom, 
Came, with a month's leave given 

them, to the sea ; 
For which his gains were dock'd, 

however small. 
Small were his gains, and hard his 

work; besides, 
Their slender household fortunes — 

for the man 
Had risk'd his little — like the little 

thrift, 10 

Trembled in perilous places o'er a 

deep. 
And oft, when sitting all alone, his 

face 
Would darken, as he cursed his cred- 

ulousness, 
And that one unctuous mouth which 

lured him, rogue, 
To buy strange shares in some Peru- 
vian mine. 
Now seaward-bound for health they 

gain'd a coast, 
All sand and cliff and deep-inrunning 

cave, 
At close of day ; slept, woke, and 

went the next, 
The Sabbath, 4>ious variers from the 

church, 
To chapel; where a heated pulpiteer, 
Not preaching simple Christ to simple 

men, 11 

Announced the coming doom, and 

fulminated 
Against the Scarlet Woman and her 

creed. 
For sideways up he swung his arms, 

and shriek'd 



3 2 * 



ENOCH ARDEN AND OTHER POEMS 



'Thus, thus with violence/ even as 
if he held 

The Apocalyptic millstone, and him- 
self 

Were that great angel ; ' Thus with 
violence 

Shall Babylon be cast into the sea; 

Then comes the close.' The gentle- 
hearted wife 

Hat shuddering at the ruin of a world, 

He at his own ; but when the wordy 
storm 31 

Had ended, forth they came and paced 
the shore, 

Ran in and out the long sea-framing 
caves, 

Drank the large air, and saw, but 
scarce believed — 

The soot-flake of so many a summer 
still 

Clung to their fancies — that they saw, 
the sea. 

So now on sand they walk'd, and now 
on cliff, 

Lingering about the thymy promon- 
tories, 

Till all the sails were darken'd in the 
west, 

And rosed in the east, then homeward 
and to bed ; 40 

Where she, who kept a tender Chris- 
tian hope, 

Haunting a holy text, and still to 
that 

Returning, as the bird returns, at 
night, 

1 Let not the sun go down upon your 
wrath,' 

Said, 'Love, forgive him.' But he did 
not speak ; 

And silenced by that silence lay the 
wife, 

Remembering her dear Lord who died 
for all, 

And musing on the little lives of men, 

And how they mar this Little by their 
feuds. 

But while the two were sleeping, a 

full tide 50 

[lose with ground-swell, which, on the 

foremost rocks 
Touching, upietted in spirts of wild 

sea-smoke, 
And sealed in sheetsof wasteful foam, 
and fell 



In vast sea-cataracts — ever and anon 
Dead claps of thunder from within 

the cliffs 
Heard thro' the living roar. At this 

the babe, 
Their Margaret cradled near them, 

wail'd and woke 
The mother, and the father suddenly 

cried, 
' A wreck, a wreck ! ' then turn'd and 

groaning said : 

'Forgive! How many will say, 

"forgive," and find 60 

A sort of absolution in the sound 
To hate a little longer ! No ; the sin 
That neither God nor man can well 

forgive, 
Hypocrisy, I saw it in him at once. 
Is it so true that second thoughts are 

best? - 
Not first, and third, which are a riper 

first ? 
Too ripe, too late ! they come too late 

for use. 
Ah, love, there surely lives in man 

and beast 
Something divine -to warn them of 

their foes ; 
And such a sense, when first I fronted 

him, 70 

Said, "Trust him not;" but after, 

when I came 
To know him more, I lost it, knew him 

less, 
Fought with what seem'd my own un- 

charity, 
Sat at his table, drank his costly 

wines, 
Made more and more allowance for his 

talk; 
Went further, fool ! and trusted him 

with all, 
All my poor scrapings from a dozen 

years 
Of dust and desk-work. There is no 

such mine, 
None ; but a gulf of ruin, swallowing 

gold, 
Not making. Ruin'd ! ruin'd ! the sea 

roars 80 

Ruin — a fearful night ! ' 

'Not fearful ; fair,' 
Said the good wife, ' if every star in 
heaven 



SEA DREAMS 



329 




' "I dream'd 

Of luch a tide swelling toward the land " ' 



Can make it fair ; you do but hear the 

tide. 
Had you ill dreams ? ' 

'O, yes,' he said, 'I dream'd 
Of such a tide swelling toward the 

land. 
And 1 from out the boundless outer 

deep 
Swept with it to the shore, and enter'd 

one 
Of those dark eaves that hid beneath 

the cliffs. 
I thought the motion of the boundless 

deep 
Bore thro' the cave, and I was heaved 

upon it 90 

In darkness ; then I saw one lovely star 
Larger and larger. " What a world," 

I thought, 
"To live in !" but in moving on ! 

found 



Only the landward exit of the cave, 
Bright with the sun upon the stream 

beyond ; 
And near the light a giant woman sat, 
All over earthy, like a piece of earth, 
A pickaxe in her hand. Then out I 

slipt 

Into a land all sun and blossom, trees 

As high as heaven, and every bird that 

sings; too 

And here the night light flickering in 

my eyes 

Awoke me. 

' That was then your dream,' she 

said, 
' Not sad, but sweet.' 

4 So sweet , I lay,' said he. 

'And mused upon It, drifting up the 

stream 
In fancy, till I slept again, and pieced 



33° 



ENOCH ARDEN AND OTHER POEMS 



The broken vision ; for I dream'd that 

still 
The motion of the great deep bore me 

on, 
And that the woman walk'd upon the 

brink. 
I wonder' d at her strength, and ask'd 

her of it. 
"It came," she said, "by working in 

the mines." no 

O, then to ask her of my shares, I 

thought ; 
And ask'd ; but not a word ; she shook 

her head. 
And then the motion of the current 

ceased, 
And there was rolling thunder ; and 

we reach' d 
A mountain, like a wall of burs and 

thorns ; 
But she with her strong feet up the 

steep hill 
Trod out a path. I follow'd, and at 

top 
She pointed seaward ; there a fleet of 

glass, 
That seem'd a fleet of jewels under 

me, 
Sailing along before a gloomy cloud 
That not one moment ceased to thun- 
der, past 121 
In sunshine. Right across its track 

there lay, 
Down in the water, a long reef of gold, 
Or what seem'd gold ; and I was glad 

at first 
To think that in our often-ransack'd 

world 
Still so much gold was left ; and then 

I fear'd 
Lest the gay navy there should splin- 
ter on it, 
And fearing waved my arm to warn 

them off ; 
An idle signal, for the brittle fleet — 
I thought I could have died to save 

it — near'd, 130 

Touch'd, clink'd, and clash'd, and 

vanish'd, and I woke, 
I heard the clash so clearly. Now I 

see 
Mv dream was Life, the woman honest 

Work, 
And my poor venture but a fleet of 

glass 
Wreck'd on a reef of visionary gold.' 



1 Nay, ' said the kindly wife to com- 
fort him, 

'You raised your arm, you tumbled 
down and broke 

The glass with little Margaret's medi- 
cine in it ; 

And, breaking that, you made and 
broke your dream. 

A trifle makes a dream, a trifle breaks.' 

'No trifle,' groan'd the husband; 

1 yesterday 141 

I met him suddenly in the street, and 

ask'd 
That which I ask'd the woman in my 

dream. 
Like her, he shook his head. ' ' Show 

me the books ! " 
He dodged me with a long and loose 

account. 
"The books, the books ! " but he, he 

could not wait, 
Bound on a matter he of life and 

death ; 
When the great Books — see Daniel 

seven and ten — 
Were open'd, I should find he meant 

me well ; 
And then began to bloat himself, and 

ooze 150 

All over with the fat affectionate smile 
That makes the widow lean. "My 

dearest friend, 
Have faith, have faith ! We live by 

faith," said he ; 
' ' And all things work together for the 

good 
Of those " — it makes me sick to quote 

him — last 
Gript my hand hard, and with God- 

bless-you went. 
I stood like one that had received a 

blow. 
I found a hard friend in his loose 

accounts, 
A loose one in the hard grip of his 

hand, 
A curse in his God-bless-you ; then 

my eyes 16c 

Pursued him down the street, and far 

away, 
Among the honest shoulders of the 

crowd, 
Read rascal in the motions of his back, 
And scoundrel in the supple-sliding 

knee.' 



SEA DREAMS 



■ Was he so bound, poor soul ? ' said 

the good wife ; 
* So are we all ; but do not call him, 

love, 
Before you prove him, rogue, and 

proved, forgive. 
His gain is loss; for he that wrongs 

his friend 
Wrongs himself more, and ever bears 

about 
A silent court of justice in his breast, 
Himself the judge and jury, and him- 
self i 7 i 
The prisoner at the bar, ever con- 

demn'd. 
And that drags down his life ; then 

comes what comes 
Hereafter; and he meant, he said he 

meant, 
Perhaps he meant, or partly meant, 

you well.' 

1 ' ' With all his conscience and one 

eye askew" — 
Love, let me quote these lines, that 

you may learn 
A man is likewise counsel for himself, 
Too often, in that silent court of 

yours — 
"With all his conscience and one eye 

askew, 180 

So false, he partly took himself for 

true ; 
Whose pious talk, when most his 

heart was dry, 
Made wet the crafty crowsfoot round 

his eye ; 
Who, never naming God except for 

gain, 
So never took that useful name in vain, 
Made Him his catspaw and the Cross 

his tool, 
And Christ the bait to trap his dupe 

and fool ; 
Nor deeds of gift, but gifts of grace 

he forged, 
And snake-like slimed his victim ere 

he gorged ; 
And oft at Bible meetings, o'er the 

rest 190 

Arising, did his holy oily best, 
Dropping the too rough H in Hell 

and Heaven, 
To spread the Word by which himself 

had thriven." 
How like you this old satire ?' 



'Nay,' she said, 
'I loathe it; he had never kindly 

heart, 
Nor ever cared to better his own kind, 
Who first wrote satire, with no pity 

in it. 
But will you hear my dream, for I 

had one 
That altogether went to music ? Still 
It awed me.' 

Then she told it, having dream'd 
Of that same coast. — 

But round the North, a light, 
A belt, it seem'd, of luminous vapor, 

lay, 202 

And ever in it a low musical note 
Swell'd up and died ; and, as it swell'd, 

a ridge 
Of breaker issued from the belt, and 

still 
Grew with the growing note, and 

when the note 
Had reach'd a thunderous fulness, on 

those cliffs 
Broke, mixt with awful light — the 

same as that 
Living within the belt — whereby she 

saw 
That all those lines of cliffs were cliffs 

no more, 210 

But huge cathedral fronts of every 

age, 
Grave, florid, stern, as far as eye could 

see, 
One after one; and then the great 

ridge drew, 
Lessening to the lessening music, back, 
And past into the belt and swell'd 

again 
Slowly to music. Ever when it broke 
The statues, kin 2:, or saint, or founder 

fell; 
Then from the gaps and chasms of 

ruin left 
Came men and women in dark clus- 
ters round. 
Some crying, 'Set them up! they 

shall not fall ! ' 
And others, 'Let them lie, for they 

have fallen.' 
And still they strove and wrangled ; 

and she grieved 

In her strange dream, she knew not 
why, to rind 



332 



ENOCH ARDEN AND OTHER POEMS 



Their wildest wailings never out of 

tune 
With that sweet note; and ever as 

their shrieks 
Ran highest up the gamut, that great 

wave 
Returning, while none mark'd it, on 

the crowd 
Broke, mixt with awful light, and 

show'd their eyes 
Glaring, and passionate looks, and 

swept away 
The men of flesh and blood, and men 

of stone, 230 

To the waste deeps together. 

' Then I fixt 
My wistful eyes on two fair images, 
Both crown'd with stars and high 

among the stars, — 
The Virgin Mother standing with her 

child 
High up on one of those dark minster- 
fronts — 
Till she began to totter, and the child 
Clung to the mother, and sent out a 

cry 
Which mixt with little Margaret's, 

and I woke, 
And my dream awed me; — well — 

but what are dreams ? 
Yours came but from the breaking of 

a glass, 240 

And mine but from the crying of a 

child.' 

'Child? No!' said he, 'but this 

tide's roar, and his, 
Our Boanerges with his threats of doom 
And loud - lung'd Antibabylonian- 

isms — 
Altho' I grant but little music there — 
Went both to make your dream ; but 

if there were 
A music harmonizing our wild cries, 
Sphere-music such as that you dream'd 

about, 
Why, that would make our passions 

far too like 
The discords dear to the musician. 

No — 250 

One shriek of hate would jar all the 

hymns of heaven. 
True devils with no ear, they howl in 

tune 
With nothing but the devil ! ' 



' "True" indeed ! 
One of our town, but later by an hour 
Here than ourselves, spoke with me 

on the shore ; 
While you were running down the 

sands, and made 
The dimpled flounce of the sea-furbe- 
low flap, 
Good man, to please the child. She 

brought strange news. 
Why were you silent when I spoke 

to-night ? 
I had set my heart on your forgiving 

him 260 

Before you knew. We must forgive 

the dead.' 

' Dead ! who is dead ? ' 

' The man your eye pursued. 

A little after you had parted with 
him, 

He suddenly dropt dead of heart-dis- 
ease.' 

' Dead ? he ? of heart-disease ? what 
heart had he 
To die of ? dead ! ' 

' Ah, dearest, if there be 
A devil in man, there is an angel too, 
And if he did that wrong you charge 

him with, 
His angel broke his heart. But your 

rough voice — 
You spoke so loud — has roused the 

child again. 270 

Sleep, little birdie, sleep ! will she not 

sleep 
Without her "little birdie"? well. 

then, sleep, 
And I will sing you "birdie."' 

Saying this, 

The woman half turn'd round from 
him she loved, 

Left him one hand, and reaching thro' 
the night 

Her other, found — for it was close 
beside — 

And half -embraced the basket cradle - 
head 

With one soft arm, which, like the 
pliant bough 

That moving moves the nest and nest- 
ling, sway'd 



ODE, THE INTERNATIONAL EXHIBITION 



333 



The cradle, while she sang this baby- 
song : 280 

What does little birdie say 
In her nest at peep of day ? 
Let me fly, says little birdie, 
Mother, let me fly away. 
Birdie, rest a little longer, 
Till the little wings are stronger, 
So she rests a little longer, 
Then she flies away. 

What does little bab} r say, 

In her bed at peep of day ? 290 

Baby says, like little birdie, 

Let me rise and fly away. 

Baby, sleep a little longer, 

Till the little limbs are stronger; 

If she sleeps a little longer, 

Baby too shall fly away. 

' She sleeps ; let us too, let all evil, 

sleep. 
He also sleeps — another sleep than 

ours. 
He can do no more wrong ; forgive 

him, dear, 
And I shall sleep the sounder ! ' 

Then the man, 
' His deeds yet live, the worst is yet 

to come. 301 

Yet let your sleep for this one night 

be sound ; 
I do forgive him ! ' 

' Thanks, my love,' she said, 
* Your own will be the sweeter ' and 
they slept. 



ODE SUNG AT THE OPENING 
OF THE INTERNATIONAL 
EXHIBITION 



Uplift a thousand voices full and 
sweet, 
In this wide hall with earth's inven- 
tion stored, 
And praise the invisible universal 
Lord, 
Who lets once more in peace the 
nations meet, 
Where Science, Art, and Labor have 
outpour'd 
Their myriad horns of plenty at our 
feet. 



O silent father of our Kings to be, 
Mourn'd in this golden hour of jubi- 
lee, 
For this, for all, we weep our thanks 
to thee ! 



The world - compelling plan was 

thine, — 
And, lo ! the long laborious miles 
Of Palace ; lo ! the giant aisles, 
Rich in model and design ; 
Harvest- tool and husbandry, 
Loom and wheel and enginery, 
Secrets of the sullen mine, 
Steel and gold, and corn and wine, 
Fabric rough, or fairy-fine, 
Sunny tokens of the Line, 
Polar marvels, and a feast 
Of wonder, out of West and East, 
And shapes and hues of Art divine ! 
All of beauty, all of use, 
That one fair planet can produce, 

Brought from under every star, 
Blown from over every main, 
And mixt, as life is mixt with pain, 

The works of peace with works of 
war. 

IV 

Is the goal so far away ? 

Far, how far no tongue can say, 

Let us dream our dream to-day. 



O ye, the wise who think, the wise 

who reign, 
From growing Commerce loose her 

latest chain, 
And let the fair white-wing'd peace- 
maker fly 
To happy havens under all the sky. 
And mix the seasons and the golden 

hours ; 
Till each man find his own in all 

men's good, 
And all men work in noble brother 

hood, 
Breaking their mailed fleets and armed 

towers, 
And ruling by obeying Nature's 

powers, 
And gathering all the fruits of earth 

andcrown'd with all herflowera 



334 



ENOCH ARDEN AND OTHER POEMS 



A WELCOME TO ALEXANDRA 

MARCH 7, 1863 

Sea-kings' daughter from over the 

sea, 

Alexandra ! 
Saxon and Norman and Dane are we, 
But all of us Danes in our welcome of 

thee, 

Alexandra ! 
Welcome her, thunders of fort and of 

fleet! 
Welcome her, thundering cheer of the 

street ! 
Welcome her, all things youthful and 

sweet, 
Scatter the blossom under her feet ! 
Break, happy land, into earlier flowers ! 
Make music, O bird, in the new-budded 

bowers ! 
Blazon your mottoes of blessing and 

prayer ! 
Welcome her, welcome her, all that is 

ours ! 
Warble, O bugle, and trumpet, blare ! 
Flags, flutter out upon turrets and 

towers ! 
Flames, on the windy headland flare ! 
Utter your jubilee, steeple and spire ! 
Clash, ye bells, in the merry March air ! 
Flash, ye cities, in rivers of fire ! 
Rush to the roof, sudden rocket, and 

higher 
Melt into stars for the land's desire ! 
Roll and rejoice, jubilant voice, 
Roll as a ground-swell dash'd on the 

strand, 
Roar as the sea when he welcomes the 

land, 
And welcome her, welcome the land's 

desire, 
The sea-kings' daughter as happy as 

fair, 
Blissful bride of a blissful heir, 
Bride of the heir of the kings of the 

sea — 
O jpy to the people and joy to the 

throne, 
Come to us, love us and make us your 

own ; 
For Saxon or Dane or Norman we, 
Teuton or Celt, or whatever we be, 
We are each all Dane in our welcome 

of thee, 

Alexandra ! 



THE GRANDMOTHER 



And Willy, my eldest-born, is gone, 

you say, little Anne ? 
Ruddy and white, and strong on his 

legs, he looks like a man. 
And Willy's wife has written ; she 

never was over-wise, 
Never the wife for Willy ; he would n't 

take my advice. 

ii 
For, Annie, you see, her father was 

not the man to save, 
Had n't a head to manage, and drank 

himself into his grave. 
Pretty enough, very pretty ! but I was 

against it for one. 
Eh ! — but he would n't hear me — and 

Willy, you say, is gone. 



Willy, my beauty, my eldest-born, the 

flower of the flock ; 
Never a man could fling him, for 

Willy stood like a rock. io 

* Here 's a leg for a babe of a week ! ' 

says Doctor ; and he would be 

bound 
There was not his like that year in 

twenty parishes round. 



Strong of his hands, and strong on his 

legs, but still of his tongue ! 
I ought to have gone before him ; I 

wonder he went so young. 
I cannot cry for him, Annie ; I have 

not long to stay. 
Perhaps I shall see him the sooner, for 

he lived far away. 



Why do you look at me, Annie ? you 

think I am hard and cold ; 
But all my children have gone before 

me, I am so old. 
I cannot weep for Willy, nor can I 

weep for the rest ; 
Only at your age, Annie, I could have 

wept with the best. 20 

VI 

For I remember a quarrel I had with 
your father, my dear, 



THE GRANDMOTHER 



335 




' Seventy years ago, rny darling, seventy years ago ' 



All for a slanderous story, that cost 

me many a tear. 
I mean your grandfather, Annie ; it 

cost me a world of woe, 
Seventy years ago, my darling, seventy 

years ago. 

VII 

For Jenny, my cousin, had come to 

the place, and I knew right well 
That Jenny had tript in her time ; I 

knew, but I would not tell. 
And she to be coming and slandering 

me, the base little liar ! 
But the tongue is a fire, as you know, 

my dear, the tongue is a fire. 



And the parson made it his text that 

week, and he said likewise 
That a lie which is half a truth is 

ever the blackest of lies, 30 

That a lie which is all a lie may be 

met and fought with outright, 
But a lie which is part a truth is a 

harder matter to fight. 



And Willy had not been down to the 

farm for a week and a day ; 
And all things look'd half-dead, tho' 

it was the middle of May. 
Jenny, to slander me, who knew what 

Jenny had been ! 
But soiling another, Annie, will never 

make oneself clean. 



And I cried myself well-nigh blind, 
and all of an evening late 

I climb'd to the top of the garth, and 
stood by the road at the gate. 

The moon like a rick on fire was 
rising over the dale. 

And whit, whit, whit, in the bush 
beside me chirrupt the night- 
ingale. 



All of a sudden lie stopt ; there past 
by the gate of the farm 

Willy, — he didn't see me, — and 
Jenny hung on his arm. 



33& 



ENOCH ARDEN AND OTHER POEMS 



Out into the road I started, and spoke 

I scarce knew how ; 
Ah, there 's no fool like the old one — 

it makes me angry now. 



Willy stood up like a man, and look'd 
the thing that he meant ; 

Jenny, the viper, made, me a mocking 
curtsey and went. 

And I said, ' Let us part ; in a hun- 
dred years it '11 all be the same. 

You cannot love me at all, if you love 
not my good name.' 



And he turn'd, and I saw his eyes all 

wet, in the sweet moonshine : 
' Sweetheart, I love you so well that 

your good name is mine. 50 

And what do I care for Jane, let her 

speak of you well or ill ; 
But marry me out of hand ; we two 

shall be happy still.' 



• Many you, Willy ! ' said I, 'but I 
needs must speak my mind, 

And I fear you'll listen to tales, be 
jealous 4 and hard and unkind.' 

But he turn'd and claspt me in his 
arms, and answer'd, 'No, love, 
no ; ' 

Seventy years ago, my darling, sev- 
enty years ago. 

xv 
So Willy and I were wedded. I wore 

a lilac gown ; 
And the ringers rang with a will, and 

he gave the ringers a crown. 
But the first that ever I bare was dead 

before he was born ; 
Shadow and shine is life, little Annie, 

flower and thorn. 60 

XVI 

That was the first time, too, that ever 

I thought of death. 
There lay the sweet little body that 

never had drawn a breath. 
I had not wept, little Anne, not .since 

I had been a wife ; 
But I wept like a child that day, for 

the babe had fought for his life. 



His dear little face was troubled, as 

if with anger or pain ; 
I look'd at the still little body — his 

trouble had all been in vain. 
For Willy I cannot weep, I shall see 

him another morn ; 
But I wept like a child for the child 

that was dead before he was 

born. 

XVIII 

But he cheer' d me, my good man, for 

he seldom said me nay. 
Kind, like a man, was he ; like a man, 

too, would have his way ; 70 
Never jealous — not he. We had 

many a happy year ; 
And he died, and I could not weep — 

my own time seem'd so near. 



But I wish'd it had been God's will 

that I, too, then could have 

died ; 
I began to be tired a little, and fain 

had slept at his side. 
And that was ten years back, or more, 

if I don't forget ; 
But as to the children, Annie, they 're 

all about me yet. 



Pattering over the boards, my Annie 

who left me at two, 
Patter she goes, my own little Annie, 

an Annie like you ; 
Pattering over the boards, she comes 

and goes at her will, 
While Harry is in the five-acre and 

Charlie ploughing the hill. 80 



And Harry and Charlie, I hear them 

too — they sing to their team ; 
Often they come to the door in a 

pleasant kind of a dream. 
They come and sit by my chair, they 

hover about my bed — 
I am not always certain if they be 

alive or dead. 

XXII 

And yet I know for a truth there's 
none of them left alive, 



NORTHERN FARMER, OLD STYLE 



337 



For Harry went at sixty, your father 

at sixty-five ; 
And Willy, my eldest-born, at nigh 

threescore and ten. 
I knew them all as babies, and now 

they 're elderly men. 



For mine is a time of peace, it is not 

often I grieve ; 
I am oftener sitting at home in my 

father's farm at eve ; 90 

And the neighbors come and laugh 

and gossip, and so do I ; 
I find myself often laughing at things 

that have long gone by. 

XXIV 

To be sure the preacher says, our 

sins should make us sad ; 
But mine is a time of peace, and there 

is Grace to be had ; 
And God, not man, is the Judge of us 

all when life shall cease ; 
And in this Book, little Annie, the 

message is. one of peace. 

XXV 

And age is a time of peace, so it be 

free from pain, 
And happy has been my life ; but I 

would not live it again. 
I seem to be tired a little, that's all, 

and long for rest ; 
Only at your age, Annie, I could have 

wept with the best. ioo 

XXVI 

So Willy has gone, my beauty, my 

eldest-born, my flower ; 
But how can I weep for Willy, he has 

but gone for an hour, — 
Gone for a minute, my son, from this 

room into the next ; 
I, too, shall go in a minute. What 

time have I to be vext ? 



And Willy's wife has written, she 

never was over- wise. 
Get me my glasses, Annie ; thank 

God that I keep my eyes. 
There is but a trifle left you, when I 

shall have past away. 
But stay with the old woman now ; 

you cannot have long to stay. 



NORTHERN FARMER 

OLD STYLE 

I 

Wheer 'asta bean saw long and mea 

liggin' 'ere aloan? 
Noorse ? thoort nowt o' a noorse ; 

whoy, Doctor 's abean an' agoan ; 
Says that I moant 'a naw moor aale, 

but I beant a fool ; 
Git ma my aale, fur I beant a-gawin' 

to break my rule. 



Doctors, they knaws nowt, fur a says 

what's nawways true ; 
Naw soort o' koind o' use to saay the 

things that a do. 
I've 'ed my point o' aale ivry noight 

sin' I bean 'ere. 
An' I 've 'ed my quart ivry market- 

noight for foorty year. 



Parson 's a bean loikewoise, an' a sit- 

tin' ere o' my bed. 
1 The Amoighty 's a taakin o' you l to 

'issen, my friend,' a said, 
An' a towd ma my sins, an' 's toithe 

were due, an' I gied it in 

hond ; 
I done moy duty boy 'um, as I 'a done 

boy the lond. 



Larn'd a ma' bea. I reckons I 'annot 

sa mooch to larn. 
But a cast oop, thot a did, 'bout Bessy 

Marris's barne. 
Thaw a knaws I hallus voated wi* 

Squoire an' choorch an' sta&te, 
An' i' the woost o' toimes I wur niver 

agin the raate. 

v 
An' I hallus coom'd to 's choorch afoor 

moy Sally wur dead. 
An' 'eard 'um a bummin' awafty loike 

a buzzard-clock 9 ower my end. 
An' I niver knaw'd whot a me&n'd 

but I thowt a 'ad sununut to 

saay, 
An' I thowt a said wlmt a owl to 'a 

said, an' I coom'd awafty. 
i ou as in hour, - Cockchafer. 



33* 



ENOCH ARDEN AND OTHER POEMS 



VI 

Bessy Marris's barne ! tha knaws she 

laaid it to mea. 
Mowt a bean, mayhap, for she wur a 

bad un, shea. 
'Siver, I kep 'urn, I kep 'urn, my lass, 

tha mun understond ; 
I done moy duty boy 'um, as I 'a done 

boy the lond. 

VII 

But Parson a cooms an' a goas, an' a 

says it easy an' freea : 
' The Amoighty 's a taakin o' you to 

'issen, my friend,' says 'ea. 
I weant saay men be loiars, thaw sum- 

mun said it in 'aaste ; 
But 'e reads wonn sarmin a weeak, an' 

I 'a stubb'd Thurnaby waaste. 



D' ya moind the waaste, my lass ? 

naw, naw, tha was not born 

then ; 
Theer wur a boggle in it, I often 'eard 

'um mysen ; 
Moast loike a butter-bump, 1 fur I 'eard 

'um about an about, 
But I stubb'd 'um oop wi' the lot, an' 

raaved an' rembled 'um out. 



Reaper's it wur ; f o' they fun 'um theer 

a-laaid of 'is faace 
Down i' the woild 'enemies 2 afoor I 

coom'd to the plaace. 
Noaks or Thimbleby — toaner 3 'ed 

shot 'um as dead as a naail. 
Noaks wur 'ang'd for it oop at 'soize — 

but git ma my aale. 



Dubbut loook at the waaste ; theer 

warn't not fee ad for a cow ; 
Nowt at all but bracken an' fuzz, an' 

loook at it now — 
Warn't worth nowt a haacre, an' now 

theer 's lots o' feead, 
Fourscoor 4 yows upon it, an' some on 

it down i' seead. 5 



Nobbut a bit on it's left, an' I mean'd 
to 'a stubb'd it at fall, 
1 Bittern. 2 Anemones. 3 One or other. 
4 ou as in hour. 6 Clover. 



Done it ta-year I mean'd, an' runn'd 

plow thruff it an' all, 
If Godamoighty an' parson 'ud nobbut 

let ma aloan, — 
Mea, wi' haate hoonderd haacre o' 

Squoire's, an' lond o' my oan. 

XII 

Do Godamoighty knaw what a 's do- 
ing a-taakin' o' mea ? 

I beant wonn as saws 'ere a bean an' 
yonder a pea ; 

An' Squoire 'ull be sa mad an' all — 
a' dear, a' dear ! 

And I 'a managed for Squoire coom 
Michaelmas thutty year. 



A mowt 'a taaen owd Joanes, as 'ant 
not a 'aapoth o' sense, 

Or a mowt 'a taaen young Robins — a 
niver mended a fence ; 

But Godamoighty a moost taake mea 
an' taake ma now, 

Wi' aaf the cows to cauve an' Thurn- 
aby hoalms to plow ! 



Loook 'ow quoloty smoiles when they 

seeas ma a passin' boy, 
Says to thessen, naw doubt, ' What a 

man a bea sewer-loy ! ' 
Fur they knaws what I bean to Squoire 

sin' fust a coom'd to the 'All ; 
I done moy duty by Squoire an' I done 

moy duty boy hall. 

xv 

Squoire 's i' Lunnon, an' summun I 

reckons 'ull 'a to wroite, 
For whoa 's to howd the lond atermea 

thot muddles ma quoit ; 
Sartin-sewer I bea thot a weant niver 

give it to Joanes, 
Naw, nor a moant to Robins — a niver 

rembles the stoans. 



But summun 'ull come ater mea may- 
hap wi' 'is kittle o' steam 

Huzzin' an' maazin' the blessed fealds 
wi' the divil's oan team. 

Sin' I mun doy I mun doy, thaw loife 
they says is sweet, 

But sin' I mun doy I mun doy, for I 
couldn abear to see it. 



NORTHERN FARMER, NEW STYLE 



339 



What atta s tannin' theer fur, an' doesn 

bring ma the aale ? 
Doctor's a 'toattler, lass, an a's hallus 

i' the owd taale ; 
I weant break rules fur Doctor, a 

knaws naw moor nor a floy ; 
Git ma my aale, I tell tha, an' if I mun 

doy I mun doy. 



NORTHERN FARMER 



NEW STYLE 



Dosn't thou 'ear my 'erse's legs, as 

they canters awaay ? 
Proputty, proputty, proputty — that's 

what I 'ears 'em saay. 
Proputty, proputty, proputty — Sam, 

thou 's an ass for thy pains ; 
Theer 's moor sense i' one o' 'is legs, 

nor in all thy brains. 



Woa — theer 's a craw to pluck wi' tha, 

Sam : yon 's parson's 'ouse — 
Dosn't thou knaw that a man mun be 

eather a man or a mouse ? 
Time to think on it then ; for thou '11 

be twenty to weeak. 1 
Proputty, proputty — woa then, woa 

— let ma 'ear my sen speak. 



Me an' thy muther, Sammy, 'as bean 

a-talkin' o' thee ; 
Thou 's bean talkin' to muther, an' she 

bean a-tellin' it me. 
Thou '11 not marry for munny — thou 's 

sweet upo' parson's lass — 
Noa — thou '11 marry for luvv — an' we 

boath on us thinks tha an ass. 



Seea'd her to-daay goa by — Saaint's- 
daay — they was ringing the 
bells. 

She's a beauty, thou thinks — an' soil 
is scoors o' gells, 

Them as 'as munny an' all — wot's a 
beauty ? — the flower as blaws. 

But proputty, proputty sticks, an' pro- 
putty, proputty graws. 
1 This week. 



Do' ant be stunt ; 1 taake time. I 

knaws what maakes tha sa mad. 
Warn't I craazed fur the lasses mysen 

when I wur a lad ? 
But I knaw'd a Quaaker feller as 

often 'as towd ma this : 
'Doantthou marry for munny, but 

goa wheer munny is ! ' 



An' I went wheer munny war ; an' 

thy muther coom to 'and, 
Wi' lots o' munny laaid by, an' a nice- 

tish bit o' land. 
Maaybe she warn't a beauty — I niver 

giv it a thowt — 
But warn't she as good to cuddle an' 

kiss as a lass as 'ant nowt ? 

VII 

Parson's lass 'ant nowt, an' she weant 

'a nowt when 'e's dead, 
Mun be a guvness, lad, or summut, 

and addle 2 her bread. 
Why ? fur 'e's nobbut a curate, an' 

weant niver get hissen clear, 
An' 'e maade the bed as 'e ligs on afoor 

'e coom'd to the shere. 

VIII 

An' thin 'e coom'd to the parish wi' 

lots o' Varsity debt, 
Stook to his taai'l they did, an' 'e 'ant 

got shut on 'em yet. 
An' 'e ligs on 'is back i' the grip, wi' 

noan to lend 'im a shove, 
Woorse nor a far-welter'd 3 yowe ; fur, 

Sammy, 'e married fur luvv. 



Luvv ? what's luvv ? thou can luvv 

thy lass an' 'er munny too, 
Maakin' 'em goa togither, as they 've 

good right to do. 
Couldn I luvv thy muther by cause o' 

'er munny laai'd by ? 
Naay — furl luvv'd 'er a vast sight 

moor fur it ; reason why. 

\ 
Ay, an' thy muther says thou wants to 
marry the lass, 

a Obstinate. - Earn. 

; * Or, fow-welter'd, — said of a sheep lying 

on its back in the furrow. 



34o 



ENOCH ARDEN AND OTHER POEMS 



Cooms of a gentleman burn ; an' we 

boath on us thinks tha an 

ass. 
Woa then, proputty, wiltha ? — an ass 

as near as mays nowt * — 
Woa then, wiltha ? dangtha ! — the 

bees is as fell as owt. 2 



Break me a bit o' the esh for his 'ead, 

lad, out o' the fence ! 
Gentleman burn ! what 's gentleman 

burn ? is it shillins an' pence ? 
Proputty, proputty 's ivry thing 'ere, 

an', Sammy, I'm blest 
If it is n't the saame oop yonder, fur 

them as * as it 's the best. 



XII 



as breaks 



Tis'n them as 'as munny 

into 'ouses an' steals, 
Them as 'as coats to their backs an' 

taakes their regular meals. 
Noa, but it's them as niver knaws 

wheer a meal's to be 'ad. 
Taake my word for it, Sammy, the 

poor in a loomp is bad. 



Them or thir feythers, tha sees, mun 

'a bean a laazy lot, 
Fur work mun 'a gone to the gittin' 

whiniver munny was got. 
Feyther 'ad ammost nowt ; leastways 

'is munny was 'id. 
But 'e tued an' moil'd issen dead, an' 

'e died a good un, 'e did. 



Loook thou theer wheer Wrigglesby 

beck cooms out by the 'ill ! 
Feyther run oop to the farm, an' I 

runs oop to the mill ; 
An' I '11 run oop to the brig, an' that 

thou '11 live to see; 
And if thou marries a good un I '11 

leave the land to thee. 

xv 
Thim 's my noations, Sammy, wheerby 

I means to stick ; 
But if thou marries a bad un, I'll 

leave the land to Dick. — 

1 Makes nothing. 

2 The flies are as fierce as anything. 



Coomoop, proputty, proputty — that's 
what I 'ears 'im saay — 

Proputty, proputty, proputty — canter 
an' canter awaay. 

IN THE VALLEY OF CAUTE- 
RETZ 

All along the valley, stream that 

flashest white. 
Deepening thy voice with the deepen- 
ing of' the night, 
All along the valley, where thy waters 

flow, 
I walk'd with one I loved two and 

thirty years ago. 
All along the valley, while I walk'd 

to-day, 
The two and thirty years were a mist 

that rolls away ;. 
For all along the valley, down thy 

rocky bed, 
Thy living voice to me was as the 

voice of the dead, 
And all along the valley, by rock and 

cave and tree, 
The voice of the dead was a living 

voice to me. 

THE FLOWER 

Once in a golden hour 

I cast to earth a seed. 
Up there came a flower, 

The people said, a weed. 

To and fro they w^ent 
Thro' my garden-bower, 

And muttering discontent 
Cursed me and my flower. 

Then it grew so tall 

It wore a crown of light, 

But thieves from o'er the wall 
Stole the seed by night ; 

Sow'd it far and wide 
By every town and tower, 

Till all the people cried, 
1 Splendid is the flower.' 

Read my little fable : 
He that runs may read. 

Most can raise the flowers now 
For all have got the seed. 




THE SAILOR BOY 



34i 



I 



And some are pretty enough, 
And some are poor indeed ; 

And now again the people 
Call it but a weed. 



REQUIESCAT 



Fair is her cottage in its place, 
Where yon broad water sweetly, 
slowly glides. 

It sees itself from thatch to base 
Dream in the sliding tides. 

And fairer she, but ah, how soon to 
die! 
Her quiet dream of life this hour 
may cease. 
Her peaceful being slowly passes by 
To some more perfect peace. 



THE SAILOR BOY 

He rose at dawn and, fired with hope, 
Shot o'er the seething harbor-bar, 

And reach'd the ship and caught the 
rope, 
And whistled to the morning star. 



And while he whistled long and loud 
He heard a fierce mermaiden cry, 

' O boy, tho' thou art young and 
proud, 
I see the place where thou wilt lie. 

' The sands and yeasty surges mix 
In caves about the dreary bay, 

And on thy ribs the limpet sticks. 
And in thy heart the scrawl shall 
play.' 

' Fool,' he answer'd, ' death is sure 
To those that stay and those that 
roam, 

But I will nevermore endure 
To sit with empty hands at home. 

' My mother clings about my neck, 
My sisters crying, "Stay for 
shame ; " 
My father raves of death and wreck, — 
They are all to blame, they are all 
"to blame. 

' God help me ! save I take my part 
Of danger on the roaring sea, 

A devil rises in my heart, 
Far worse than any death to me.' 




' God help me ! save I take my part 
Of danger on the roaring sea ' ■ ' 



342 



ENOCH ARDEN AND OTHER POEMS 



THE ISLET 

1 Whither, O whither, love, shall we 

go, 
For a score of sweet little summers or 

so?' 
The sweet little wife of the singer 

said, 
On the day that follow'd the day she 

was wed, 
'Whither, O whither, love, shall we 

go V 
And the singer shaking his curly 

head 
Turn'd as he sat, and struck the keys 
There at his right with a sudden 

crash, 
Singing, 'And shall it be over the 

seas 
With a crew that is neither rude nor 

rash, 
But a bevy of Eroses apple-cheek'd, 
In a shallop of crystal ivory-beak'd ? 
With a satin sail of a ruby glow, 
To a sweet little Eden on earth that I 

know, 
A mountain islet pointed and peak'd ; 
Waves on a diamond shingle dash, 
Cataract brooks to the ocean run, 
Fairily-delicate palaces shine 
Mixt with myrtle and clad with vine, 
And overstream'd and silvery-streak' d 
With many a rivulet high against the 

sun 
The facets of the glorious mountain 

flash 
Above the valleys of palm and pine. ' 

'Thither, O thither, love, let us go.' 

' No, no, no ! 

For in all that exquisite isle, my dear, 

There is but one bird with a musical 

throat, 
And his compass is but of a single 

note, 
That it makes one weary to hear.' 

' Mock me not ! mock me not ! love, 
let us go.' 

' No, love, no. 

For the bud ever breaks into bloom 

on the tree, 
And a storm never wakes on the lonely 

sea, 



And a worm is there in the lonely 

wood, 
That pierces the liver and blackens 

the blood, 
And makes it a sorrow to be.' 



A DEDICATION 

Dear, near and true, — no truer Time 

himself 
Can prove you, tho' he make you 

evermore 
Dearer and nearer, as the rapid of 

life 
Shoots to the fall, — take this and 

pray that he 
Who wrote it, honoring your sweet 

faith in him, 
May trust himself; and after praise 

and scorn, 
As one who feels the immeasurable 

world, 
Attain the wise indifference of the 

wise; 
And after autumn past — if left to 

pass * 

His autumn into seeming-leafless 

days — 
Draw toward the long frost and long- 
est night, 
Wearing his wisdom lightly, like the 

fruit 
Which in our winter woodland looks 

a flower. 1 



EXPERIMENTS 
BOADICEA 

While about the shore of Mona those 

Neronian legionaries 
Burnt and broke the grove and altar 

of the Druid and Druidess, 
Far in the East Boadicea, standing 

loftily charioted, 
Mad and maddening all that heard 

her in her fierce volubility, 
Girt by half the tribes of Britain, near 

the colony Camulodiine, 
Yell'd and shriek'd between her 

daughters o'er a wild confed- 
eracy. 
1 The fruit of the Spindle-tree (Euony- 
mus Europceus) . 



EXPERIMENTS: BOADICEA 



343 



* They that scorn the tribes and call 

us Britain's barbarous popu- 
laces, 
Did they hear me, would they listen, 

did they pity me supplicating ? 
Shall I heed them in their anguish ? 

shall I brook to be supplicated ? 
Hear, Icenian, Catieuchlanian, hear, 

Coritanian, Trinobant ! 10 

Must their ever-ravening eagle's beak 

and talon annihilate us ? 
Tear the noble heart of Britain, leave 

it gorily quivering ? 
Bark an answer, Britain's raven ! 

bark and blacken innumerable, 
Blacken round the Roman carrion, 

make the carcase a skeleton, 
Kite and kestrel, wolf and wolfkin, 

from the wilderness, wallow in 

it, 
Till the face of Bel be brighten'd, 

Taranis be propitiated. 
Lo their colony half -defended ! lo 

their colony, Camulodune ! 
There the horde of Roman robbers 

mock at a barbarous adversary. 
There the hive of Roman liars wor- 
ship an emperor-idiot. 
Such is Rome, and this her deity ; 

hear it, Spirit of Cassivelaun ! 

' Hear it, Gods ! the Gods have 
heard it, O Icenian, O Corita- 
nian ! 21 

Doubt not ye the Gods have answer'd, 
Catieuchlanian, Trinobant. 

These have told us all their anger in 
miraculous utterances, 

Thunder, a flying fire in heaven, a 
murmur heard aerially, 

Phantom sound of blows descending, 
moan of an enemy massacred, 

Phantom wail of women and children, 
multitudinous agonies. 

Bloodily flow'd the Tamesa rolling 
phantom bodies of horses and 
men ; 

Then a phantom colony smoulder'd 
on the refluent estuary ; 

Lastly yonder yester-even, suddenly 
giddily tottering — 

There was one who watch'd and told 
me — down their statue of Vic- 
tory fell. 30 

Lo their precious Roman bantling, lo 
the colony Camulodune, 



Shall we teach it a Roman lesson ? 

shall we care to be pitiful ? 
Shall we deal with it as an infant? 

shall we dandle it amorously ? 

1 Hear, Icenian, Catieuchlanian, 

hear, Coritanian, Trinobant ! 
While I roved about the forest, long 

and bitterly meditating, 
There I heard them in the darkness, 

at the mystical ceremony ; 
Loosely robed in flying raiment, sang 

the terrible prophetesses : 
" Fear not, isle of blowing woodland, 

isle of silvery parapets ! 
Tho' the Roman eagle shadow thee, 

tho' the gathering enemy nar- 
row thee, 
Thou shalt wax and he shall dwindle, 

thou shalt be the mighty one 

yet ! 40 

Thine the liberty, thine the glory, thine 

the deeds to be celebrated, 
Thine the myriad-rolling ocean, light 

and shadow illimitable, 
Thine the lands of lasting summer, 

many-blossoming Paradises, 
Thine the North and thine the South 

and thine the battle- thunder of 

God." 
So they chanted : how shall Britain 

light upon auguries happier ? 
So they chanted in the darkness, and 

there comet h a victory now. 

'Hear, Icenian, Catieuchlanian, 

hear, Coritanian, Trinobant ! 
Me the wife of rich Prasiitagus, me 

the lover of liberty, 
Me they seized and me they tortured, 

me they lash'd and humiliated, 
Me the sport of ribald Veterans, mine 

of ruffian violators ! 50 

See, they sit, they hide their faces, 

miserable in ignominy ! 
Wherefore in me burns an anger, not 

by blood to be satiated. 
Lo the palaces and the temple, lo the 

colony Camulodune ! 
There they ruled, and thence they 

wasted all the flourishing terri- 
tory, 
Thither at their will they haled the 

yellow-ringleted Bntoness — 
Bloodily, bloodily fall the battle-axe, 

unexhausted, inexorable. 



344 



ENOCH ARDEN AND OTHER POEMS 



Shout, Icenian, Catieuchlanian, shout, 

Coritanian, Trinobant, 
Till the victim hear within and yearn 

to hurry precipitously, 
Like the leaf in a roaring whirlwind, 

like the smoke in a hurricane 

whirl'd. 
Lo the colony, there they rioted in the 

city of Cunobeline ! 60 

There they drank in cups of emerald, 

there at tables of ebony lay, 
Rolling on their purple couches in their 

tender effeminacy. 
There they dwelt and there they rioted ; 

there — there — they dwell no 

more. 
Burst the gates, and burn the palaces, 

break the works of the statuary, 
Take the hoary Roman head and shat- 
ter it, hold it abominable, 
Cut the Roman boy to pieces in his 

lust and voluptuousness, 
Lash the maiden into swooning, me 

they lash'd and humiliated, 
Chop the breasts from off the mother, 

dash the brains of the little one 

out, 
Up, my Britons ! on, my chariot ! on, 

my chargers, trample them 

under us ! ' 

So the Queen Boadicea, standing 
loftily charioted, 70 

Brandishing in her hand a dart and 
rolling glances lioness-like, 

Yell'd and shriek' d between her daugh- 
ters in her fierce volubility. 

Till her people all around the royal 
chariot agitated, 

Madly dash'd the darts together, writh- 
ing barbarous lineaments, 

Made the noise of frosty woodlands, 
when they shiver in January, 

Roar'd as when the roaring breakers 
boom and blanch on the preci- 
pices, 

Yell'd as when the winds of winter 
tear an oak on a promontory. 

So the silent colony, hearing her tumul- 
tuous adversaries 

Clash the darts and on the buckler beat 
with rapid unanimous hand, 

Thought on all her evil tyrannies, all 
her pitiless avarice, 80 

Till she felt the heart within her fall 
and flutter tremulously, 



Then her pulses at the clamoring of 
her enemy fainted away. 

Out of evil evil flourishes, out of tyr- 
anny tyranny buds. 

Ran the land with Roman slaughter, 
multitudinous agonies. 

Perish'd many a maid and matron, 
many a valorous legionary, 

Fell the colony, city, and citadel, Lon- 
don, Verulam, Camulodune. 



IN QUANTITY 

(HEXAMETERS AND PENTAMETERS) 

ON TRANSLATIONS OF HOMER 

These lame hexameters the strong- 
wing' d music of Homer ! 
No — but a most burlesque barba- 
rous experiment. 
When was a harsher sound ever heard, 
ye Muses, in England ? 
When did a frog coarser croak upon 
our Helicon ? 
Hexameters no worse than daring Ger- 
many gave us, 
Barbarous experiment, barbarous 
hexameters. 

(ALCAICS) 
MILTON 

O mighty-mouth'd inventor of har- 
monies, 
O skill'd to sing of Time or Eternity, 
God-gifted organ- voice of England, 
Milton, a name to resound for 
ages; 
Whose Titan angels, Gabriel, Abdiel, 
Starr'd from Jehovah's gorgeous armo- 
ries, 
Tower, as the deep-domed empyrean 
Rings to the roar of an angel onset ! 
Me rather all that bowery loneliness, 
The brooks of Eden mazily murmur- 
ing, 
And bloom profuse and cedar arches 
Charm, as a wanderer out in ocean, 
Where some refulgent sunset of India 
Streams o'er a rich ambrosial ocean isle, 
And crimson-hued the stately palm- 
woods 
Whisper in odorous heights of 
even. 



THE THIRD OF FEBRUARY, 1852 



345 



(HENDECASYLLABICS) 

'O YOU CHORUS OF INDOLENT RE- 
VIEWERS ' 

O you chorus of indolent reviewers, 
Irresponsible, indolent reviewers, 
Look, I come to the test, a tiny poem 
All composed in a metre of Catullus, 
All in quantity, careful of my motion, 
Like the skater on ice that hardly bears 

him, 
Lest I fall unawares before the peo- 
ple, 
Waking laughter in indolent review- 
ers. 
Should I flounder awhile without a 

tumble 
Thro' this metrification of Catullus, 
They should speak to me not without 

a welcome, 
All that chorus of indolent reviewers. 
Hard, hard, hard is it, only not to 

tumble, 
So fantastical is the dainty metre. 
Wherefore slight me not wholly, nor 

believe me 
Too presumptuous, indolent review- 
ers. 
O blatant Magazines, regard me 

rather — 
Since I blush to belaud myself a mo- 
ment — 
As some rare little rose, a piece of in- 
most 
Horticultural art, or half coquette-like 
Maiden, not to be greeted unbenignly. 



SPECIMEN OF A TRANSLATION OF 
THE ILIAD IN BLANK VERSE 

[tliad, viil 542-561] 

So Hector spake ; the Trojans roar'd 

applause ; 
Then loosed their sweating horses from 

the yoke, 
And each beside his chariot bound his 

own ; 
And oxen from the city, and goodly 

sheep 
In haste they drove, and honey hearted 

wine 
And bread from out the houses 

brought, and heap'd 



Their firewood, and the winds from 

off the plain 
Roll'd the rich vapor far into the 

heaven. 
And these all night upon the bridge 1 

of war 
Sat glorying ; many a fire before them 

blazed. 
As when in heaven the stars about the 

moon 
Look beautiful, when all the winds 

are laid, 
And every height comes out, and jut- 
ting peak 
And valley, and the immeasurable 

heavens 
Break open to their highest, and all 

the stars 
Shine, and the shepherd gladdens in 

his heart ; 
So many a fire between the ships and 

stream 
Of Xanthus blazed before the towers 

of Troy, 
A thousand on the plain ; and close by 

each 
Sat fifty in the blaze of burning fire ; 
And eating hoary grain and pulse the 

steeds, 
Fixt by their cars, waited the golden 

dawn. 



THE THIRD OF FEBRUARY, 1852 

My Lords, we heard you speak: you 

told us all 
That England's honest censure went 

too far, 
That our free press should cease to 

brawl, 
Not sting the fiery Frenchman into 

war. 
It was our ancient privilege, my Lords, 
To fling whate'er we felt, not fearing, 

into words. 

We love not this French God, the child 
of hell, 
Wild War, who breaks the con \ 
of the wise ; 
But though we love kind Peace so 
well, 
We dare not even by silence sanction 
lies. 

1 Or. ridge. 



346 



ENOCH ARDEN AND OTHER POEMS 



It might be safe our censures to with- 
draw, 

And yet, my Lords, not well ; there is 
a higher law. 

As long as we remain, we must speak 

free, 
Tho' all the storm of Europe on us 

break. 
No little German state are we, 
But the one voice in Europe ; we 

must speak, 
That if to-night our greatness were 

struck dead, 
There might be left some record of 

the things we said. 

If you be fearful, then must we be 

bold. 
Our Britain cannot salve a tyrant 

o'er. 
Better the waste Atlantic roll'd 

On her and us and ours for evermore. 
What ! have we fought for Freedom 

from our prime, 
At last to dodge and palter with a 

public crime ? 

Shall we fear him f our own we never 

fear'd. 
From our first Charles by force we 

wrung our claims. 
Prick' d by the Papal spur, we rear'd, 
We flung the burthen of the second 

James. 
I say, we never fear'd ! and as for 

these, 
We broke them on the land, we drove 

them on the seas. 

And you, my Lords, you make the 

people muse 
In doubt if you be of our Barons' 

breed — 
Were those your sires who fought at 

Lewes ? 
Is this the manly strain of Runny - 

mede ? 
O fallen nobility that, overawed, 
Would lisp in honey' d whispers of 

this monstrous fraud ! 

We feel, at least, that silence here were 
sin, 
Not ours the fault if we have feeble 
hosts — 



If easy patrons of their kin 
Have left the last free race with 

naked coasts ! 
They knew the precious things they 

had to guard ; 
For us, we will not spare the tyrant 

one hard word. 

Tho' niggard throats of Manchester 

may bawl, 
What England was, shall her true 

sons forget ? 
We are not cotton -spinners all, 
But some love England and her 

honor yet. 
And these in our Thermopylae shall 

stand, 
And hold against the world this honor 

of the land. 



A WELCOME TO HER ROYAL 
HIGHNESS MARIE ALEXAN- 
DROVNA, DUCHESS OF EDIN- 
BURGH 

MARCH 7, 1874 



The Son of him with whom we strove 
for power — 
Whose will is lord thro' all his world- 
domain — 
Who made the serf a man, and burst 
his chain — 
Has given our Prince his own imperial 
Flower, 

Alexandrovna. 
And welcome, Russian flower, a peo- 
ple's pride, 
To Britain, when her flowers begin 

to blow ! 
From love to love, from home to 
home you go, 
From mother unto mother, stately 
bride, 

Marie Alexandrovna ! 

ii 
The golden news along the steppes is 
blown, 
And at thy name the Tartar tents 

are stirr'd ; 
Elburz and all the Caucasus have 
heard ; 



CHILD SONGS 



347 



And all the sultry palms of India 
known, 

Alexandrovna. 
The voices of our universal sea 

On capes of Afric as on cliffs of 

Kent, 
The Maoris and that Isle of Conti- 
nent, 
And loyal pines of Canada murmur 
thee, 

Marie Alexandrovna ! 



Fair empires branching, both, in lusty 
life ! — 
Yet Harold's England fell to Norman 

swords ; 
Yet thine own land has bow'd to 
Tartar hordes 
Since English Harold gave its throne 
a wife, 

Alexandrovna ! 
For thrones and peoples are as waifs 
that swing, 
And float or fall, in endless ebb and 

flow ; 
But who love best have best the 
grace to know 
That Love by right divine is deathless 
king, 

Marie Alexandrovna ! 

IV 

And Love has led thee to the stranger 
land, 
Where men are bold and strongly 

say their say ; — 
See, empire upon empire smiles to- 
day, 
As thou with thy young lover hand in 
hand, 

Alexandrovna ! 
So now thy fuller life is in the west, 
Whose hand at home was gracious 

to thy poor ; 
Thy name was blest within the nar- 
row door ; 
Here also, Marie, shall thy name be 
blest, 

Marie Alexandrovna ! 



Shall fears and jealous hatreds flame 
again ? 
Or at thy coming, Princess, every- 
where, 



The blue heaven break, and some 
diviner air 
Breathe thro' the world and change 
the hearts of men, 

Alexandrovna ? 
But hearts that change not, love that 
cannot cease, 
And peace be yours, the peace of 

soul in soul ! 
And howsoever this wild world mav 
roll, 
Between your peoples truth and man- 
ful peace, 

Alfred — Alexandrovna ! 



IN THE GARDEN AT SWAINS- 
TON 

Nightingales warbled without, 
Within was weeping for thee ; 

Shadows of three dead men 
Walk'd in the walks with me, 
Shadows of three dead men, and 
thou wast one of the three. 

Nightingales sang in his woods, 
The Master was far away ; 

Nightingales warbled and sang 
Of a passion that lasts but a day ; 
Still in the house in his coffin the 
Prince of courtesy lay. 

Two dead men have I known 

In courtesy like to thee ; 
Two dead men have I loved 

With a love that ever will be ; 

Three dead men have I loved, and 
thou art last of the three. 



CHILD SONGS 



THE CITY CHILD 

Dainty little maiden, whither would 

you wander ? 
Whither from this pretty home, the 

home where mother dwell 
'Far and far away,' said the dainty 

little maiden, 
'All among the Hardens, aurienlas. 

anemones, 
Roses and lilies and Canterbury 

bells.' 



348 



ENOCH ARDEN AND OTHER POEMS 



Dainty little maiden, whither would 
you wander ? 
Whither from this pretty house, 
this city-house of ours ? 

1 Far and far away,' said the dainty 
little maiden, 

'All among the meadows, the clover 
and the clematis, 
Daisies and kingcups and honey- 
suckle-flowers. ' 

II 

MINNIE AND WINNIE 

Minnie and Winnie 

Slept in a shell. 
Sleep, little ladies ! 

And they slept well. 

Pink was the shell within, 

Silver without ; 
Sounds of the great sea 

Wander' d about. 

Sleep, little ladies ! 

Wake not soon ! 
Echo on echo 

Dies to the moon. 

Two bright stars 

Peep'd into the shell. 
1 What are they dreaming of ? 

Who can tell?' 

Started a green linnet 

Out of the croft ; 
Wake, little ladies ! 

The sun is aloft ! 



THE SPITEFUL LETTER 

Here, it is here, the close of the year, 
And with it a spiteful letter. 

My name in song has done him much 
wrong, 
For himself has done much better. 

little bard, is your lot so hard, 
If men neglect your pages ? 

1 think not much of yours or of mine, 
I hear the roll of the ages. 

Rhymes and rhymes in the range of 
the times ! 
Are mine for the moment stronger ? 



Yet hate me not, but abide your lot ; 
I last but a moment longer. 

This faded leaf, our names are as brief ; 

What room is left for a hater ? 
Yet the yellow leaf hates the greener 
leaf, 

For it hangs one moment later. 

Greater than I — is that your cry ? 

And men will live to see it. 
Well — if it be so — so it is, you know ; 

And if it be so, so be it. 

Brief, brief is a summer leaf, 
But this is the time of hollies. 

O hollies and ivies and evergreens, 
How I hate the spites and the follies ! 



LITERARY SQUABBLES 

Ah God ! the petty fools of rhyme 
That shriek and sweat in pigmy wars 

Before the stony face of Time, 
And look'd at by the silent stars ; 

Who hate each other for a song, 
And do their little best to bite 

And pinch their brethren in the throng, 
And scratch the very dead for spite ; 

And strain to make an inch of room 
For their sweet selves, and cannot 
hear 
The sullen Lethe rolling doom 

On them and theirs and all things 
here ; 

When one small touch of Charity 
Could lift them nearer Godlike state 

Than if the crowded Orb should cry 
Like those who cried Diana great. 

And I too talk, and lose the touch 
I talk of. Surely, after all, 

The noblest answer unto such 

Is perfect stillness when they brawl. 



THE VICTIM 
i 
A plague upon the people fell, 
A famine after laid them low ; 
Then thorpe and byre arose in fire, 
For on them brake the sudden foe ; 



WAGES 



349 



So thick they died the people cried, 
'The Gods are moved against the 
land.' 
The Priest in horror about his altar 
To Thor and Odin lifted a hand : 
' Help us from famine 
And plague and strife ! 
What would you have of us ? 
Human life ? 
Were it our nearest, 
Were it our dearest, — 
Answer, O answer ! — 
We give you his life/ 



But still the foeman spoil'd and burn'd, 
And cattle died, and deer in wood, 
And bird in air, and fishes turn'd 

And whiten' d all the rolling flood ; 
And dead men lay all over the way, 
Or down in a furrow scathed with 
flame ; 
And ever and aye the Priesthood 
moan'd, 
Till at last it seem'd that an answer 
came: 
' The King is happy 
In child and wife ; 
Take you his dearest, 
Give us a life.' 



The Priest went out by heath and 
hill; 
The King was hunting in the wild ; 
They found the mother sitting still ; 
She cast her arms about the child. 
The child was only eight summers old, 
His beauty still with his years in- 
creased, 
His face was ruddy, his hair was gold ; 
He seem'd a victim due to the priest. 
The Priest beheld him, 
And cried with joy, 
' The Gods have answer'd ; 
We give them the boy.' 



The King return'd from out the wild, 

He bore but little game in hand ; 
The mother said, ' They have taken 
the child 
To spill his blood and heal the land. 
The land is sick, the people diseased, 
And blight and famine on all the 
lea; 



The holy Gods, they must be appeased, 
So I pray yon tell the truth to me. 
They have taken our son, 
They will have his life. 
Is he your dearest ? 
Or I, the wife ? ' 



The King bent low, with hand on 
brow, 
He stay'd his arms upon his knee : 
' O wife, what use to answer now ? 
For now the Priest has judged for 
me.' 
The King was shaken with holy fear ; 
'The Gods,' he said, 'would have 
chosen well ; 
Yet both are near, and both are dear, 
And which the dearest I cannot 
tell ! ' 
But the Priest was happy, 
His victim won : 
' We have his dearest, 
His only son ! ' 



The rites prepared, the victim bared, 
The knife uprising toward the blow, 
To the altar-stone she sprang alone : 

' Me, not my darling, no ! ' 
He caught her away with a sudden 
cry; 
Suddenly from him brake his wife, 
And shrieking, ' / am his dearest, I — 
/ am his dearest ! ' rush'd on the 
knife. 
And the Priest was happy : 
' O Father Odin, 
We give you a life. 
Which was his nearest ? 
Who was his dearest ? 
The Gods have answer'd ; 
We give them the wife ! ' 

WAGES 

Glory of warrior, glory of orator, 

glory of song, 
Paid with a voice flying by to be lost 

on an endless sea — 
Glory of Virtue, to fight, to struggle, 

to right the wrong — 
Nay, but she aim'd not at glory, no 

lover of glory she ; 
Give her the glory of going on, and 

still to be. 






35° 



ENOCH ARDEN AND OTHER POEMS 



The 



the 



wages of sin is death : if 
wages of Virtue be dust, 
Would she have heart to endure for 
the life of the worm and the 
fly? 
She desires no isles of the blest, no 
quiet seats of the just, 
To rest in a golden grove, or to 
bask in a summer sky ; 
Give her the wages of going on, and 
not to die. 



THE HIGHER PANTHEISM 

The sun, the moon, the stars, the seas, 
the hills and the plains, — 

Are not these, O Soul, the Vision of 
Him who reigns ? 

Is not the Vision He, tho' He be not 
that which He seems ? 

Dreams are true while they last, and 
do we not live in dreams ? 

Earth, these solid stars, this weight of 

body and limb, 
Are they not sign and symbol of thy 

division from Him ? 

Dark is the world to thee ; thyself art 

the reason why, 
For is He not all but thou, that hast 

power to feel ' I am I ' ? 

Glory about thee, without thee ; and 
thou fulfillest thy doom, 

Making Him broken gleams and a 
stifled splendor and gloom. 

Speak to Him, thou, for He hears, 
and Spirit with Spirit can 
meet — 

Closer is He than breathing, and 
nearer than hands and feet. 

God is law, say the wise ; O Soul, and 
let us rejoice, 

For if He thunder by law the thun- 
der is yet His voice. 

Law is God, say some ; no God at all, 

says the fool, 
For all we have power to see is a 

straight staff bent in a pool ; 



And the ear of man cannot hear, and 
the eye of man cannot see ; 

But if we could see and hear, this 
Vision — were it not He ? 



THE VOICE AND THE PEAK 



The voice and the Peak 
Far over summit and lawn, 

The lone glow and long roar 

Green-rushing from the rosy thrones 
of dawn ! 



All night have I heard the voice 
Rave over the rocky bar, 

But thou wert silent in heaven, 
Above thee glided the star. 



Hast thou no voice, O Peak, 
• That standest high above all ? 
1 1 am the voice of the Peak, 
I roar and rave, for I fall. 



' A thousand voices go 

To North, South, East, and West ; 
They leave the heights and are 
troubled, 

And moan and sink to their rest. 



1 The fields are fair beside them, 
The chestnut towers in his bloom ; 

But they — they feel the desire of the 
deep — 
Fall, and follow their doom. 



' The deep has power on the height, 
And the height has power on the 
deep ; 

They are raised for ever and ever, 
And sink again into sleep/ 



Not raised for ever and ever, 
But when their cycle is o'er, 

The valley, the voice, the peak, 
star 
Pass, and are found no more. 



the 



LUCRETIUS 



35i 




' Hast thou no voice, O Peak ' 



The Peak is high and flush' d 
At his highest with sunrise fire ; 

The Peak is high, and the stars are high, 
And the thought of a man is higher. 



A deep below the deep, 

And a height beyond the height ! 
Our hearing is not hearing, 

And our seeing is not sight. 



The voice and the Peak 

Far into heaven withdrawn, 

The lone glow and long roar 

Green-rushing from the rosy thrones 
of dawn ! 

'FLOWER IN THE CRANNIED 
WALL' 

Flower in the crannied wall, 
I pluck you out of the crannies, 



I hold you here, root and all, in my 
hand, 

Little flower — but if I could under- 
stand 

What you are, root and all, and all in 
all, 

I should know what God and man is. 



LUCRETIUS 

Lucilia, wedded to Lucretius, found 

Her master cold ; for when the morn- 
ing flush 

Of passion and the first embrace had 
died 

Between them, tho' he loved her none 
the less, 

Yet often when the woman heard his 
foot 

Return from pacings in the field, and 
ran 

To greet him with a kiss, the master 
took 



35 2 



ENOCH ARDEN AND OTHER POEMS 



Small notice, or austerely, for — his 
mind 

Half buried in some weightier argu- 
ment, 

Or fancy -borne perhaps upon the rise 

And long roll of the hexameter — he 
past ii 

To turn and ponder those three hun- 
dred scrolls 

Left by the Teacher, whom he held 
divine. 

She brook' d it not, but wrathful, pet- 
ulant, 

Dreaming some rival, sought and 
found a witch 

Who brew'd the philtre which had 
power, they said, 

To lead an errant passion home again. 

And this, at times, she mingled with 
his drink, 

And this destroy 'd him ; for the wicked 
broth 

Confused the chemic labor of the 
blood, 20 

And tickling the brute brain within 
the man's 

Made havoc among those tender cells, 
and check'd 

His power to shape. He loathed him- 
self, and once 
• After a tempest woke upon a morn 

That mock'd him with returning calm, 
and cried : 

' Storm in the night ! for thrice I 
heard the rain 

Rushing ; and once the flash of a 
thunderbolt — 

Methought I never saw so fierce a 
fork — 

Struck out the streaming mountain- 
side, and show'd 

A riotous confluence of watercourses 

Blanching and billowing in a hollow 
of it, 31 

Where all but y ester-eve was dusty- 
dry. 

'Storm, and what dreams, ye holy 

Gods, what dreams ! 
For thrice I waken' d after dreams. 

Perchance 
We do but recollect the dreams that 

come 
Just ere the waking. Terrible : for it 

seem'd 



A void was made in Nature , all her 

bonds 
Crack'd ; and I saw the flaring atom- 
streams 
And torrents of her myriad universe, 
Ruining along the illimitable inane, 40 
Fly on to clash together again, and 

make 
Another and another frame of things 
For ever. That was mine, my dream, 

I knew it — 
Of and belonging to me, as the dog 
With inward yelp and restless forefoot 

plies 
His function of the woodland ; but the 

next! 
I thought that all the blood by Sylla 

shed 
Came driving rainlike down again on 

earth, 
And where it dash'd the reddening 

meadow, sprang 
No dragon warriors from Cadmean 

teeth, 50 

For these I thought my dream would 

show to me, 
But girls, Hetairai, curious in their 

art, 
Hired animalisms, vile as those that 

made 
The mulberry-faced Dictator's orgies 

worse 
Than aught they fable of the quiet 

Gods. 
And hands they mixt, and yelFd and 

round me drove 
In narrowing circles till I yell'd again 
Half -suffocated, and sprang up, and 

saw — 
Was it the first beam of my latest day ? 

' Then, then, from utter gloom stood 

out the breasts, 60 

The breasts of Helen, and hoveringly 

a sword 
Now over and now under, now direct, 
Pointed itself to pierce, but sank down 

shamed 
At all that beauty ; and as I stared, a 

fire, 
The fire that left a roofless II ion, 
Shot out of them, and scorch'd me that 

I woke. 

1 Is this thy vengeance, holy Venus, 
thine, 



LUCRETIUS 



353 



Because I would not one of thine own 

doves, 
Not even a rose, were offer'd to thee ? 

thine, 
Forgetful how my rich prooemion 

makes 70 

Thy glory fly along the Italian field, 
In lays that will outlast thy deity ? 

1 Deity ? nay, thy worshippers. My 
tongue 

Trips, or I speak profanely. Which 
of these 

Angers thee most, or angers thee at 
all? 

Not if thou be'st of those who, far 
aloof 

From envy, hate and pity, and spite 
and scorn, 

Live the great life which all our great- 
est fain 

Would follow, centred in eternal calm. 

4 Nay, if thou canst, O Goddess, like 
ourselves 80 

Touch, and be touch'd, then would I 
cry to thee 

To kiss thy Mavors, roll thy tender 
arms 

Bound him, and keep him from the 
lust of blood 

That makes a steaming slaughter- 
house of Rome. 

' Ay, but I meant not thee ; I meant 

not her 
Whom all the pines of Ida shook to see 
Slide from that quiet heaven of hers, 

and tempt 
The Trojan, while his neatherds were 

abroad ; 
Nor her that o'er her wounded hunter 

wept 
Her deity false in human-amorous 

tears ; 90 

Nor whom her beardless apple-arbiter 
Decided fairest. Rather, O ye Gods, 
Poet-like, as the great Sicilian called 
Calliope to grace his golden verse — 
Ay, and this Kypris also — did I take 
That popular name of thine to shadow 

forth 
The all-generating powers and genial 

heat 
Of Nature, when she strikes thro' the 

thick blood 



Of cattle, and light is large, and lambs 

are glad 
Nosing the mother's udder, and the 

bird 100 

Makes his heart voice amid the blaze 

of flowers ; 
Which things appear the work of 

mighty Gods. 

* The Gods ! and if I go my work is 

left 
Unfinish'd — if I go. The Gods, who 

haunt 
The lucid interspace of world and 

world, 
Where never creeps a cloud, or moves 

a wind, 
Nor ever falls the least white star of 

snow, 
Nor ever lowest roll of thunder moans, 
Nor sound of human sorrow mounts 

to mar 
Their sacred everlasting calm! and 

SUCh, no 

Not all so fine, nor so divine a calm, 
Not such, nor all unlike it, man may 

gain 
Letting his own life go. The Gods, 

the Gods ! 
If all be atoms, how then should the 

Gods 
Being atomic not be dissoluble, 
Not follow the great law ? My master 

held 
That Gods there are, for all men so 

believe. 
I prest my footsteps into his, and meant 
Surely to lead my Memmius in a 

train 
Of flowery clauses onward to the proof 
That Gods there are, and deathless. 

Meant ? I meant ? 121 

I have forgotten what I meant ; my 

mind 
Stumbles, and all my faculties are 

lamed. 

' Look where another of our Gods, 

the Sun, 
Apollo, Delius, or of older use 
All - seeing Hyperion — what you 

will — 
Has mounted yonder ; since he never 

sware, 
Except his wrath were wreak'd on 

wretched man, 



354 



ENOCH ARPEX AND OTHER POEMS 



That he would only shine among the 
dead 

Hereafter — tales! for never yet on 
earth 130 

Could dead tlesh creep, or bits of roast- 
ing ox 

Moan round the spit — nor knows he 
what he sees : 

King of the East altho' he seem, and 
girt 

With song and flame and fragrance, 
slowly lifts 

Mis golden feet on those empurpled 
stairs 

That climb into the windy halls of 
heaven. 

Aud here he glances on an eye new- 
born. 

And gets for greeting but a wail of 
pain ; 

And here he stays upon a freezing 
orb 

That fain would gaze upon him to the 
last ; 140 

And here upon a yellow eyelid fallen 

And closed by those who mourn a 
friend in vain. 

Not thankful that his troubles are no 
more. 

And me. altho* his tire is on my face 

Blinding, he sees not. nor at all can tell 

Whether I mean this day to end my- 
self, 

Or lend an ear to Plato where he says. 

That men like soldiers may not quit 
the post 

Allotted by the Gods. But he that 
holds 

The Gods are careless, wherefore need 
he care 150 

Greatly for them, nor rather plunge at 
once. 

Being troubled, wholly out of sight, 
and sink 

Past earthquake — ay, aud gout and 
stone, that break 

Body toward death, and palsy, death- 
in-life. 

And wretched age — and worst dis- 
ease of all. 

These prodigies of myriad nakednesses. 

And twisted shapes of lust, unspeak- 
able. 

Abominable, strangers at my hearth 

Not welcome, harpies miring every 
dish, 



The phantom husks of something 
foully done. 160 

And fleeting thro' the boundless uni- 
verse. 

And blasting the long quiet of my 
breast 

With animal heat and dire insanity ? 

'How should the mind, except it 

loved them, clasp 
These idols to herself ? or do they fly 
Now thinner, and now thicker, like 

the flakes 
In a fall of snow, and so press in, per- 
force 
Of multitude, as crowds that in an 

hour 
Of civic tumult jam the doors, and 

bear 
The keepers down, and throng, their 

rags and they 170 

The basest, far into that council-hall 
Where sit the best and stateliest of 

the land ? 

• Can I not fling this horror off me 

again. 
Seeing with how great ease Nature 

can smile. 
Balmier and nobler from her bath of 

storm. 
At random ravage ? and how easily 
The mountain there has cast his cloudy 

slough. 
Xow- towering o'er him in serenest air, 
A mountain o'er a mountain. — ay. 

and within 
All hollow as the hopes and fears of 

men ? 180 

'But who was he that in the garden 
snared 

Picus and Faunus. rustic Gods'? a tale 

To laugh at — more to laugh at in 
myself — 

For look : what is it ? there ? yon ar- 
butus 

Totters: a noiseless riot underneath 

Strikes through the wood, sets all the 
tops quivering — 

The mountain quickens into Nymph 
and Faun ; 

And here an Oread — how the sun de- 
lights 

To glance and shift about her slippery 
sides. 



LUCRETIUS 



355 



And rosy knees and supple rounded- 
ness, 190 

And budded bosom-peaks — who this 

way runs 
before the rest ! — A satyr, a satyr, see, 

Follows ; but him I proved impossible ; 

Twy-natured is no nature. Yet he 
draws 

Nearer and nearer, and I scan him 
now 

Beastlier than any phantom of his kind 

That ever butted his rough brother- 
brute 

For lust or lusty blood or provender. 

I hate, abhor, spit, sicken at him ; 
and she 

Loathes him as well ; such a precipi- 
tate heel, 200 

Fledged as it were with Mercury's 
ankle-wing, 

Whirls her to me — but will she fling 
herself 

Shameless upon me ? Catch her, goat- 
foot ! nay, 

Hide, hide them, million-myrtled wil- 
derness, 

And cavern-shadowing laurels, hide ! 
do I wish — 

What ? — that the bush were leafless ? 
or to whelm 

All of them in one massacre ? O ye 
Gods, 

I know you careless, yet, behold, to 
you 

From childly wont and ancient use I 
call — 

I thought I lived securely as your- 
selves — 210 

No lewdness, narrowing envy, mon- 
key-spite, 

No madness of ambition, avarice, none ; 

No larger feast than under plane or 
pine 

With neighbors laid along the grass, 
to take 

Only such cups as left us friendly- 
warm, 

Affirming each his own philosophy — 

Nothing to mar the sober majesties 

Of settled, sweet, Epicurean life. 

But now it seems some unseen mon- 
ster lays 

His vast and filthy hands upon my 
will, 220 

Wrenching it backward into his, and 
spoils 



My bliss in being; and it was not 
great, 

For save when shutting reasons up in 
rhythm, 

Or Heliconian honey in living words, 

To make a truth less harsh, I often 
grew 

Tired of so much within our little life, 

Or of so little in our little life — 

Poor little life that toddles half an 
hour 

Crown'd with a flower or two, and 
there an end — 

And since the nobler pleasure seems 
to fade, . 230 

Why should I, beastlike as I find my- 
self, 

Not manlike end myself? — our privi- 
lege — 

What beast has heart to do it ? And 
what man, 

What Roman would be dragg'd in 
triumph thus ? 

Not I ; not he, who bears one name 
with her 

Whose death-blow struck the dateless 
doom of kings, 

When, brooking not the Tarquin in 
her veins, 

She made her blood in sight of Collatine 

And all his peers, flushing the guilt- 
less air, 

Spout from the maiden fountain in 
her heart. 240 

And from it sprang the Common- 
wealth, which breaks 

As I am breaking now ! * 

' And therefore now 
Let her, that is the womb and tomb 

of all, 
Great Nature, take, and forcing far 

apart 
Those blind beginnings that have 

made me man, 
Dash them anew together at her will 
Thro' all her cycles — into man once 

more, 
Or beast or bird or fish, or opulent 

flower. 
But till this cosmic order everywhere 
Shatter'd into one earthquake in one 

day 
Cracks all to pieces, —and that hour 

perhaps 
Is not so far when momentary man 



356 



ENOCH ARDEN AND OTHER POEMS 



Shall seem no more a something to 

himself, 
But he, his hopes and hates, his homes 

and fanes, 
And even his bones long laid within 

the grave, 
The very sides of the grave itself shall 

pass, 
Vanishing, atom and void, atom and 

void, 
Into the unseen for ever, — till that 

hour, 
My golden work in which I told a 

truth 
That stays the rolling Ixionian wheel, 
And numbs the Fury's ringlet-snake, 

and plucks 261 

The mortal soul from out immortal 

hell, 
Shall stand. Ay, surely ; then it fails 

at last 
And perishes as I must ; for O Thou, 
Passionless bride, divine Tranquillity, 
Yearn'd after by the wisest of the wise, 
Who fail to find thee, being as thou art 



Without one pleasure and without one 

pain, 
Howbeit I know thou surely must be 

mine 269 

Or soon or late, yet out of season, thus 
I woo thee roughly, for thou carest not 
How roughly men may woo thee so 

they win — 
Thus — thus — the soul flies out and 

dies in the air. ' 

With that he drove the knife into 

his side. 
She heard him raging, heard him fall, 

ran in, 
Beat breast, tore hair, cried out upon 

herself 
As having fail'd in duty to him, 

shriek'd 
That she but meant to win him back, 

fell on him, 
Clasp'd, kiss'd him, wail'd. He an- 

swer'd, ' Care not thou ! 
Thy duty ? What is duty ? Fare thee 

well ! ' 280 







' The home of my love ' 



THE WINDOW; OR, THE SONG OF THE 

WRENS 



WORDS WRITTEN FOR MUSIC 

THE MUSIC BY ARTHUR SULLIVAN 

Four years ago Mr. Sullivan requested me to write a little song-cycle, German 
fashion, tor him to exercise his art upon. He had been very successful in setting such 
old songs as 'Orpheus with his lute,' and I drest up for him, partly in the old style, a 
puppet whose almost only merit is, perhaps, that it can dance to Mr. Sullivan's instru- 
ment. I am sorry that my four-year-old puppet should have to dance at all in the dark 
shadow of these days; but the music is now completed, and I am bound by my promise. 

A. Tennyson. 

December, 1870. 



ON THE HILL 

The lights and shadows fly ! 
Yonder it brightens and darkens down 
on the plain. 



A jewel, a jewel dear to a lover's eye! 
O, is it the brook, or a pool, or her 
window-pane, 
When the winds are up in the 
morning ? 



358 



THE WINDOW 



Clouds that are racing above, 
And winds and lights and shadows 
that cannot be still, 
All running on one way to the home 
of my love, 
You are all running on, and I stand 
on the slope of the hill, 
And the winds are up in the 
morning ! 10 

Follow, follow the chase ! 
And my thoughts are as quick and as 
quick, ever on, on, on. 
O lights, are you flying over her 
sweet little' face ? 
And my heart is there before you are 
come, and gone, 
When the winds are up in the 
morning ! 

Follow them down the slope ! 
And I follow them down to the win- 
dow-pane of my dear, 
And it brightens and darkens and 
brightens like my hope, 
And it darkens and brightens and 
darkens like my fear, 
And the winds are up in the 
morning ! 20 

AT THE WINDOW 

Vine, vine and eglantine, 
Clasp her window, trail and twine ! 
Rose, rose and clematis. 
Trail and twine and clasp and kiss, 
Kiss, kiss ; and make her a bower 
All of flowers, and drop me a 
flower, 

Drop me a flower. 

Vine, vine and eglantine, 
Cannot a flower, "a flower, be mine ? 
Rose, rose and clematis, 30 

Drop me a flower, a flower to kiss, 
Kiss, kiss — and out of her bower 
All of flowers, a flower, a flower, 
Dropt, a flower. 



GONE 

Gone ! 

Gone, till the end of the year, 
Gone, and the light gone with her, 
and left me in shadow here ! 
Gone — flitted away, 



Taken the stars from the night ami 

the sun from the day ! 
Gone, and a cloud in my heart, and a 

storm in the air ! 4 o 

Flown to the east or the west, flitted 

I know not where ! 
Down in the south is a flash and a 

groan : she is there ! she is 

there ! 

WINTER 

The frost is here, 
And fuel is dear, 
And woods are sear, 
And fires burn clear, 
And frost is here 

And has bitten the heel of the going 
year. 

Bite, frost, bite ! 

You roll up away from the light 50 

The blue wood-louse and the plump 

dormouse, 
And the bees are still'd, and the flies 

are kill'd, 
And you bite far into the heart of the 

house, 
But not into mine. 

Bite, frost, bite ! 
The woods are all the searer, 
The fuel is all the dearer. 
The fires are all the clearer, 
My spring is all the nearer, 
You have bitten into the heart of the 
earth, 60 

But not into mine. 



SPRING 

Birds' love and birds' song 

Flying here and there. 
Birds' song and birds' love, 

And you with gold for hair ! 
Birds' song and birds' love, 

Passing with the weather, 
Men's song and men's love. 

To love once and for ever. 

Men's love and birds' love, 70 

And women's love and men's ! 

And you my wren with a crown of 
gold, 
You my queen of the w T rens ! 



THE WINDOW 



359 



You the queen of the wrens — 
We '11 be birds of a feather, 

I '11 be King of the Queen of the 
wrens, 
And all in a nest together. 



THE LETTER 

Where is another sweet as my sweet, 
Fine of the fine, and shy of the 
shy ? 
Fine little hands, fine little feet — 8o 

Dewy blue eye. 
Shall I write to her ? shall I go ? 

Ask her to marry me by and by ? 
Somebody said that she 'd say no ; 
Somebody knows that she '11 say ay ! 

Ay or no, if ask'd to her face ? 

Ay or no, from shy of the shy ? 
Go, little letter, apace, apace, 

Fly ; 8 9 

Fly to the light in the valley below — 

Tell my wish to her dewy blue eye. 
Somebody said that she 'd say no ; 

Somebody knows that she'll say ay! 

NO ANSWER 

The mist and the rain, the mist and 
the rain ! 
Is it ay or no ? is it ay or no ? 

And never a glimpse of her window- 
pane ! 
And I may die but the grass will 
grow, 

And the grass will grow when I am 
gone, 

And the wet west wind and the 
world will go on. 99 

Ay is the song of the wedded spheres, 
No is trouble and cloud and storm, 
Ay is life for a hundred years, 
No will push me down to the 
worm, 
And when I am there and dead and 

gone, 
The wet west wind and the world 
will go on. 

The wind and the wet, the wind and 
the wet ! 
Wet west wind, how you blow, you 
blow ! 



And never a line from my lady yet ! 

Is it ay or no ? is it ay or no * 
Blow then, blow, and when I am 
gone, no 

The wet west wind and the world . 
may go on. 

NO ANSWER 

Winds are loud and you are dumb, 
Take my love, for love will come, 

Love will come but once a life. 
Winds are loud and winds will pass ! 
Spring is here with leaf and grass ; 

Take my love and be my wife. 
After-loves of maids and men 
Are but dainties drest again. 
Love me now, you 11 love me then ; 120 

Love can love but once a life. 

THE ANSWER 

Two little' hands that meet, 
Claspt on her seal, my sweet ! 
Must I take you and break you, 
Two little hands that meet ? 
I must take you, and break you, 
And loving hands must part — 
Take, take — break, break — 
Break — you may break my heart. 
Faint heart k never won — 130 

Break, break, and all 's done. 

AY 

Be merry, all birds, to-day, 
Be merry on earth as you never 
were merry before, 
Be merry in heaven, O larks, and far 
away, 
And merry for ever and ever, and 
one day more. 

Why? 
For it's easy to find a rhyme. 
Look, look, how he flits, 

The fire-crown'd king of the wrens 

from out of the pine ! 

Look how they tumble the blossom. 

the mad little tits ! 140 

' Cuck-00 ! Cuck-00 ! ' was ever a 

May so fine ? 

Why ? 
For it 's easy to find a rhyme. 
O merry the linnet and dove, 



3 6 ° 



THE WINDOW 



And swallow and sparrow and 
throstle, and have your desire ! 
O merry rny heart, you have gotten 
the wings of love. 
And flit like the king of the wrens 
with a crown of fire. 
Why? 
For it 's ay ay, ay ay. 

WHEN 

Sun comes, moon comes, 150 

Time slips away. 
Sun sets, moon sets, 

Love, fix a day. 

1 A year hence, a year hence/ 
' We shall both be gray.' 

' A month hence, a month hence/ 
' Far, far away/ 

*■ A week hence, a week hence.' 

1 Ah, the long delay ! ' 
• Wait a little, wait a little, 160 

You shall fix a day.' 

' To-morrow, love, to-morrow, 
And that's an age away.' 

Blaze upon her window, sun, 
And honor all the day. 



MARRIAGE MORNING 

Light, so low upon earth, 

You send a flash to the sun. 
Here is the golden close of love, 

All my wooing is done. 
0. the woods and the meadows, 170 

Woods where we hid from the wet, 
Stiles where we stay'd to be kind, 

Meadows in which we met ! 



Light, so low in the vale 

You flash and lighten afar, 
For this is the golden morning 
love, 

And you are his morning star. 
Flash, I am coming, I come, 

By meadow and stile and wood, 
O, lighten into my eyes and 
heart, 

Into my heart and my blood ! 



of 



my 

180 



Heart, are you great enough 

For a love that never tires ? 
O heart, are you great enough for 
love? 

I have heard of thorns and briers. 
Over the thorns and briers, 

Over the meadows and stiles, 
Over the world to the end of it 

Flash for a million miles. 




' She was dark-hair'd, dark-eyed ' 



THE LOVER'S TALE 



The original Preface to ' The Lover's Tale ' states that it was composed, in my nine- 
teenth year. Two only of the three parts then written were printed, when, feeling the 
imperfection of the poem, I withdrew it from the press. One of my friends, however, 
who, boylike, admired the boy's work, distributed among our common associates of that 
hour some copies of these two parts, without my knowledge, without the omissions and 
amendments which I had in contemplation, and marred by the many misprints of the 
compositor. Seeing that these two parts have of late been mercilessly pirated, and that 
what I had deemed scarce worthy to live is not allowed to die, may I not be pardoned if 
I suffer the whole poem at last to come into the light — accompanied with a reprint of the 
sequel — a work of my mature life — ' The Golden Supper ' ? 
May, 1879. 

ARGUMENT 

Julian, whose cousin and foster-sister, Camilla, has been wedded to his friend and rival, 
Lionel, endeavors to narrate the story of his own love for her, and the strange sequel. 
He speaks (in Parts II. and III.) of having been haunted by visions and the sound of bells, 
tolling for a funeral, and at last ringing for a marriage ; but he breaks away, overcome, 
as he approaches the Event, and a witness to it completes the tale. 



I 



Here far away, seen from the top- 
most cliff, 

Filling with purple gloom the vacan- 
cies 



Between the tufted hills, the sloping 

seas 
Hung in mid-heaven, and half-way 

down rare sails, 
White as white clouds, floated from 

sky to sky. 



362 



THE LOVER'S TALE 



pleasant breast of waters, quiet 

bay, 
Like to a quiet mind in the loud world, 
Where the chafed breakers of the 

outer sea 
Sank powerless, as anger falls aside 
And withers on the breast of peaceful 

love ! 10 

Thou didst receive the growth of pines 

that fledged 
The hills that watch'd thee, as Love 

watcheth Love, 
In thine own essence, and delight thy- 
self 
To make it wholly thine on sunny 

days. 
Keep thou thy name of ' Lover's Bay.' 

See, sirs, 
Even now the Goddess of the Past, 

that takes 
The heart, and sometimes touches but 

one string 
That quivers and is silent, and some- 
times 
Sweeps suddenly all its half -moulder' d 

chords 
To some old melody, begins to play 20 
That air which pleased her first. I feel 

thy breath ; 

1 come, great Mistress of the ear and 

eye; 
Thy breath is of the pine-wood, and 

tho' years 
Have hollow'd out a deep and stormy 

strait 
Betwixt the native land of Love and 

me, 
Breathe but a little on me, and the 

sail 
Will draw me to the rising of the sun, 
The lucid chambers of the morning 

star, 
And East of Life. 

Permit me, friend, I pry thee, 

To pass my hand across my brows, and 
muse 30 

On those dear hills, that nevermore 
will meet 

The sight that throbs and aches be- 
neath my touch, 

As tho' there beat a heart in either eye ; 

For when the outer lights are darken' d 
thus, 

The memory's vision hath a keener 
edge. 



It grows upon me now — the semi- 
circle 

Of dark-blue waters and the narrow 
fringe 

Of curving beach — its wreaths of drip- 
ping green — 

Its pale pink shells — the summer- 
house aloft 

That open'd on the pines with doors of 
glass, 40 

A mountain nest — the pleasure-boat 
that rock'd, 

Light-green with its own shadow, keel 
to keel, 

Upon the dappled dimplings of the 
wave 

That blanch'd upon its side. 

O Love, O Hope ! 
They come, they crowd upon me all 

at once — 
Moved from the cloud of unforgotten 

things, 
That sometimes on the horizon of the 

mind 
Lies folded, often sweeps athwart in 

storm — 
Flash upon flash they lighten thro" me 

— days 
Of dewy dawning and the amber 

eves 50 

When thou and I, Camilla, thou and I 
Were borne about the bay or safely 

moor'd 
Beneath a low-brow'd cavern, where 

the tide 
Plash'd, sapping its worn ribs ; and all 

without 
The slowly - ridging rollers on the 

cliffs 
Clash' d, calling to each other, and thro' 

the arch 
Down those loud waters, like a setting 

star, 
Mixt with the gorgeous west the light- 
house shone, 
And silver-smiling Venus ere she fell 
Would often loiter in her balmy 

blue, 60 

To crown it with herself. 

Here, too, my love 
Waver'd at anchor with me, when day 

hung 
From his mid-dome in heaven's airy 

halls ; 



THE LOVER'S TALE 



363 



Gleams of the water- circles as they 

broke 
Flicker'd like doubtful smiles about 

her lips, 
Quiver'd a flying glory on her hair, 
Leapt like a passing thought across 

her eyes ; 
And mine with one that will not pass, 

till earth 
And heaven pass too, dwelt on my 

heaven, a face 
Most starry-fair, but kindled from 

within 70 

As 'twere with dawn. She was dark- 

hair'd, dark-eyed — 
O, such dark eyes ! a single glance of 

them 
Will govern a whole life from birth to 

death, 
Careless of all things else, led on with 

light 
In trances and in visions. Look at 

them, 
You lose yourself in utter ignorance ; 
You cannot find their depth ; for they 

go back, 
And farther back, and still withdraw 

themselves 
Quite into the deep soul, that evermore 
Fresh springing from her fountains in 

the brain, 80 

Still pouring thro', floods with redun- 
dant life 
Her narrow portals. 

Trust me, long ago 
I should have died, if it were possible 
To die in gazing on that perfectness 
Which I do bear within me. I had 

died, 
But from my farthest lapse, my latest 

ebb, 
Thine image, like a charm of light and 

strength 
Upon the waters, push'd me back again 
On these deserted sands of barren life. 
Tho' from the deep vault where the 

heart of Hope 90 

Fell into dust, and crumbled in the 

dark — 
Forgetting how to render beautiful 
Her countenance with quick and 

healthful blood — 
Thou didst not sway me upward ; 

could I perish 
While thou, a meteor of the sepulchre, 



Didst swathe thyself all round Hope's 

quiet urn 
For ever ? He that saith it hath o'er- 

stept 
The slippery footing of his narrow wit, 
And fallen away from judgment. 

Thou art light, 
To which my spirit leaneth all her 

flowers, 100 

And length of days, and immortality 
Of thought, and freshness ever self- 

renew'd. 
For Time and Grief abode too long 

with Life, 
And, like all other friends i' the world, 

at last 
They grew aweary of her fellowship. 
So Time and Grief did beckon unto 

Death, 
And Death drew nigh and beat the 

doors of Life ; 
But thou didst sit alone in the inner 

house, 
A wakeful portress, and didst parle 

with Death, — 
' This is a charmed dwelling which I 

hold;' 
So Death gave back, and would no 

further come. 
Yet is my life nor in the present time, 
Nor in the present place. To me alone, 
Push'd from his chair of regal heritage, 
The Present is the vassal of the Past : 
So that, in that I have lived, do I live. 
And cannot die, and am, in having 

been — 
A portion of the pleasant yesterday, 
Thrust forward on to-day and out of 

place ; 
A body journeying onward, sick with 

toil, 120 

The weight as if of age upon my limbs, 
The grasp of hopeless grief about my 

heart, 
And all the senses weaken'd, save in 

that, 
Which long ago they had glean'd and 

garner d up 
Into the granaries of memory — 
The clear brow, bulwark of the pre- 
cious brain, 
Chink'd as you see, and seam'd — and 

all the while 
The light soul twines and mingles with 

the growths 
Of vigorous early days, attracted, won, 



3 6 4 



THE LOVER'S TALE 



Married, made one with, molten into 
all 130 

The beautiful in Past of act or place, 

And like the all-enduring camel, driven 

Far from the diamond fountain by the 
palms, 

Who toils across the middle moonlit 
nights, 

Or when the white heats of the blind- 
ing noons 

Beat from the concave sand ; yet in 
him keeps 

A draught of that sweet fountain that 
he loves, 

To stay his feet from falling and his 
spirit 

From bitterness of death. 

Ye ask me, friends, 
When I began to love. How should I 

tell you ? 140 

Or from the after-fulness of my heart, 
Flow back again unto my slender 

spring 
And first of love, tho' every turn and 

depth 
Between is clearer in my life than all 
Its present flow. Ye know not what 

ye ask. 
How should the broad and open flower 

tell 
What sort of bud it was, when, prest 

together 
In its green sheath, close-lapt in silken 

folds, 
It seem'd to keep its sweetness to itself, 
Yet was not the less sweet for that it 

seem'd? 150 

For young Life knows not when young 

Life was born, 
But takes it all for granted : neither 

Love, 
Warm in the heart, his cradle, can re- 
member 
Love in the womb, but resteth satis- 
fied, 
Looking on her that brought him to 

the light ; 
Or as men know not when they fall 

asleep 
Into delicious dreams, our other life, 
So know I not when I began to love. 
This is my sum of knowledge — that 

my love 
Grew with myself — say rather, was 

my growth, 160 



My inward sap, the hold I have on 

earth, 
My outward circling air wherewith I 

breathe, 
Which yet upholds my life, and ever- 
more 
Is to me daily life and daily death. 
For how should I have lived and not 

have loved ? 
Can ye take off the sweetness from the 

flower, 
The color and the sweetness from the 

rose, 
And place them by themselves ; or set 

apart 
Their motions and their brightness 

from the stars, 
And then point out the flower or the 

star ? 170 

Or build a wall betwixt my life and 

love, 
And tell me where I am ? 'T is even 

thus: 
In that I live I love ; because I love 
I live. Whate'er is fountain to the 

one 
Is fountain to the other ; and whene'er 
Our God unknits the riddle of the one, 
There is no shade or fold of mystery 
Swathing the other. 

Many, many years — 

For they seem many and mv most of 
life, 

And well I could have linger'd in that 
porch, 180 

So unproportion'd to the dwelling- 
place, — 

In the May -dews of childhood, oppo- 
site 

The flush and dawn of youth, we lived 
together, 

Apart, alone together on those hills. 

Before he saw my day my father 

died, 
And he was happy that he saw it not ; 
But I and the first daisy on his grave 
From the same clay came into light at 

once. 
As Love and I do number equal years, 
So she, my love, is of an age with me. 
How like each other was the birth of 

each ! 191 

On the same morning, almost the same 

hour, 






THE LOVER'S TALE 



365 



Under the selfsame aspect of the 

stars — 
O, falsehood of all star-craft! — we 

were born. 
How like each other was the birth of 

each ! 

The sister of my mother — she that bore 
Camilla close beneath her beating 

heart, 
Which to the imprison'd spirit of the 

child, 

With its true-touched pulses in the flow 
And hourly visitation of the blood, 200 
Sent notes of preparation manifold, 
And mellow'd echoes of the outer 

world — 
My mother's sister, mother of my love, 
Who had a twofold claim upon my 

heart, 
One twofold mightier than the other 

was, 
In giving so much beauty to the world, 
And so much wealth as God had 

charged her with — 
Loathing to put it from herself for 

ever, 
Left her own life with it ; and dying 

thus, 
Crown' d with her highest act the placid 

face 210 

And breathless body of her good deeds 

past. 

So were we born, so orphan'd. She 
was motherless, 
And I without a father. So from each 
Of those two pillars which from earth 

uphold 
Our childhood, one had fallen away, 

and all 
The careful burthen of our tender years 
Trembled upon the other. He that 

gave 
Her life, to me delightedly fulfill'd 
All loving kindnesses, all offices 
Of watchful care and trembling ten- 
derness. 220 
He waked for both, he pray'd for both, 

he slept 
Dreaming of both ; nor was his love the 

less 
Because it was divided, and shot forth 
Boughs on each side, laden with whole- 
some shade, 
Wherein we nested sleeping or awake, 
And sang aloud the matin-song of life. 



She was my foster-sister. On one 

arm 
The flaxen ringlets of our infancies 
Wander'd, the while we rested; one 

soft lap 
Pillow'd us both ; a common light of 

eyes 230 

Was on us as we lay ; our baby lips, 
Kissing one bosom, ever drew from 

thence 
The stream of life, one stream, one 

life, one blood, 
One sustenance, which, still as thought 

grew large, 
Still larger moulding all the house of 

thought, 
Made all our tastes and fancies like, 

perhaps — 
All — all but one ; and strange to me, 

and sweet, 
Sweet thro' strange years to know 

that whatsoe'er 
Our general mother meant for me 

alone, 
Our mutual mother dealt to both of 

US. 240 

So what was earliest mine in earliest 
life, 

I shared with her in whom myself re- 
mains. 

As was our childhood, so our in- 
fancy, 

They tell me, was a very miracle 

Of fellow-feeling and communion. 

They tell me that we would not be 
alone, — 

We cried when we were parted ; when 
I wept, 

Her smile lit up the rainbow on my 
tears, 

Stay'd on the cloud of sorrow; that 
we loved 

The sound of one another's voices more 

Then the gray cuckoo loves his name, 
and learn'd 251 

To lisp in tune together ; that we slept 

In the same cradle always, face to lace, 

Heart beating time to heart, lip press- 
ing lip, 

Folding each other, breathing on each 
other, 

Dreaming together — dreaming o\' each 
other, 

They should have added. — till the 
morning light 



3 66 



THE LOVER'S TALE 






Sloped thro' the pines, upon the dewy 
pane 

Falling, unseal'd our eyelids, and we 
woke 

To gaze upon each other. If this be 
true, 260 

At thought of which my whole soul 
languishes 

And faints, and hath no pulse, no 
breath — as tho' 

A man in some still garden should in- 
fuse 

Rich atar in the bosom of the rose, 

Till, drunk with its own wine, and 
overfull 

Of sweetness, and in smelling of itself, 

It fall on its own thorns — if this be 
true — 

And that way my wish leads me ever- 
more 

Still to believe it, 'tis so sweet a 
thought — 

Why in the utter stillness of the 

SOUl 270 

Doth question'd memory answer not, 

nor tell 
Of this our earliest, our closest-drawn, 
Most loveliest, earthly -heavenliest har- 
mony? 

O blossom'd portal of the lonely 

house, 
Green prelude, April promise, glad 

new-year 
Of being, which with earliest violets 
And lavish carol of clear-throated larks 
Fill'd all the March of life! — I will 

not speak of thee, 
These have not seen thee, these can 

never know thee, 
They cannot understand me. Pass 

we then 280 

A term of eighteen years. Ye would 

but laugh 
If I should tell you how I hoard in 

thought 
The faded rhymes and scraps of an 

cient crones, 
Gray relics of the nurseries of the 

world, 
Which are as gems set in my memory, 
Because she learnt them with me ; or 

what use 
To know her father left us just before 
The daffodil was blown? or how we 

found 



The dead man cast upon the shore ? 

All this 
Seems to the quiet daylight of your 

minds 290 

But cloud and smoke, and in the dark 

of mine 
Is traced with flame. Move with me 

to the event. 

There came a glorious morning, 

such a one 
As dawns but once a season. Mercury 
On such a morning would have flung 

himself 
From cloud to cloud, and swum with 

balanced wings 
To some tall mountain. When I said 

to her, 
'A day for gods to stoop,' she an- 
swered, 'Ay, 
And men to soar;' for as that other 

gazed, 
Shading his eyes till all the fiery cloud, 
The prophet and the chariot and the 

steeds, 301 

Suck'd into oneness like a little star 
Were drunk into the inmost blue, we 

stood, 
When first we came from out the 

pines at noon, 
With hands for eaves, uplooking and 

almost 
Waiting to see some blessed shape in 

heaven, 
So bathed we were in brilliance. 

Never yet 
Before or after have I known the spring 
Pour with such sudden deluges of light 
Into the middle summer ; for that day 
Love, rising, shook his wings, and 

charged the winds 311 

With spiced May-sweets from bound 

to bound, and blew 
Fresh fire into the sun, and from 

within 
Burst thro' the heated buds, and sent 

his soul 
Into the songs of birds, and touch'd 

far-off 
His mountain-altars, his high hills, 

with flame 
Milder and purer. 

Thro' the rocks we wound ; 
The great pine shook with lonely 
sounds of joy 



THE LOVER'S TALE 



367 



That came on the sea-wind. As moun- 
tain streams 

Our bloods ran free ; the sunshine 
seem'd to brood 320 

More warmly on the heart than on the 
brow. 

We often paused, and, looking back, 
we saw 

The clefts and openings in the moun- 
tains fill'd 

With the blue valley and the glisten- 
ing brooks. 

And all the low dark groves, a land 
of love ! 

A land of promise, a land of memory, 

A land of promise flowing with the 
milk 

And honey of delicious memories ! 

And down to sea, and far as eye could 
ken, 

Each way from verge to verge a Holy 
Land, 330 

Still growing holier as you near'd the 
bay, 

For there the Temple stood. 

When we had reach'd 
The grassy platform on some hill, I 

stoop'd, 
I gather'd the wild herbs, and for her 

brows 
And mine made garlands of the self- 
same flower, 
Which she took smiling, and with my 

work thus 
Crown'd her clear forehead. Once or 

twice she told me — 
For I remember all things — to let grow 
The flowers that run poison in their 

veins. 
She said, 'The evil flourish in the 

world.' 340 

Then playfully she gave herself the 

lie — 
1 Nothing in nature is unbeautiful ; 
So, brother, pluck and spare not. ' So 

I wove 
Even the dull-blooded poppy-stem, 

1 whose flower, 
Hued with the scarlet of a fierce sun- 
rise, 
Like to the wild youth of an evil 

prince, 
Is without sweetness, but who crowns 

himself 
Above the naked poisons of his heart 



In his old age.' A graceful thought 

of hers 
Graven on my fancy ! And O, how 

like a nymph, 35 o 

A stately mountain nymph she look'd ! 

how native 
Unto the hills she trod on ! While I 

gazed 
My coronal slowly disentwined itself 
And fell between us both ; tho' while 

I gazed 
My spirit leap'd as with those thrills 

of bliss 
That strike across the soul in prayer, 

and show us 
That we are surely heard. Methought 

a light 
Burst from the garland I had woven, 

and stood 
A solid glory on her bright black 

hair; 
A light methought broke from her 

dark, dark eyes, 360 

And shot itself into the singing winds ; 
A mystic light flash'd even from her 

white robe 
As from a glass in the sun, and fell 

about 
My footsteps on the mountains. 

Last we came 
To what our people call ' The Hill of 

Woe.' 
A bridge is there, that, look'd at from 

beneath, 
Seems but a cobweb filament to link 
The yawning of an earthquake-cloven 

chasm. 
And thence one night, when all the 

winds were loud, 
A wof ul man — for so the story went — 
Had thrust his wife and child and 

dash'd himself 371 

Into the dizzy depth below. Below, 
Fierce in the strength of far descent, 

a stream 
Flies with a shatter'd foam along the 

chasm. 

The path was perilous, loosely 

strown with crags. 
We mounted slowly ; yet to both 

there came 
The joy of life in steepness overcome. 
And victories of ascent, and looking 

down 



3 68 



THE LOVER'S TALE 



On all that had look'd down on us ; and 

joy 
In breathing nearer heaven ; and joy 

to me, 380 

High over all the azure-circled earth, 
To breathe with her as if in heaven 

itself ; 
And more than joy that I to her 

became 
Her guardian and her angel, raising 

her 
Still higher, past all peril, until she 

saw 
Beneath her feet the region far away, 
Beyond the nearest mountain's bosky 

brows, 
Arise in open prospect — heath and 

hill, 
And hollow lined and wooded to the 

lips, 
And steep-down walls of battlemented 

rock 39° 

Gilded with broom, or shatter' d into 

spires, 
And glory of broad waters interfused, 
Whence rose as it were breath and 

steam of gold, 
And over all the great wood rioting 
And climbing, streak' d or starr'd at 

intervals 
With falling brook or blossom'd bush 

— and last, 
Framing the mighty landscape to the 

west, 
A purple range of mountain-cones, 

between 
Whose interspaces gush'd in blinding 

bursts 
The incorporate blaze of sun and sea. 

At length 
Descending from the point, and stand- 
ing both 401 
There on the tremulous bridge, that 

from beneath 
Had seem'd a gossamer filament up in 

air, 
We paused amid the splendor. All 

the west 
And even unto the middle south was 

ribb'd 
And barr'd with bloom on bloom. 

The sun below, 
Held for a space 'twixt cloud and 

wave, shower' d down 
Rays of a mighty circle, weaving over 



That various wilderness a tissue of 

light 
Unparallel'd. On the other side, the 

moon, 4 io 

Half-melted into thin blue air, stood 

still, 
And pale and fibrous as a wither'd 

leaf, 
Nor yet endured in presence of His 

eyes 
To indue his lustre ; most unloverlike, 
Since in his absence full of light and 

joy, 
And giving light to others. But this 

most, 
Next to her presence whom I loved so 

well, 
Spoke loudly even into my inmost 

heart 
As to my outward hearing. The 

loud stream, 
Forth issuing from his portals in the 

crag, — 420 

A visible link unto the home of my 

heart, — 
Ran amber toward the west, and nigh 

the sea 
Parting my own loved mountains 

was received, 
Shorn of its strength, into the sympa- 
thy 
Of that small bay, which out to open 

main 
Glow'd intermingling close beneath 

the sun. 
Spirit of Love ! that little hour was 

bound, 
Shut in from Time, and dedicate to 

thee; 
Thy fires from heaven had touch'd it, 

and the earth 
They fell on became hallow'd ever- 
more. 430 

We turn'd, our eyes met ; hers were 

bright, and mine 
Were dim with floating tears, that 

shot the sunset 
In lightnings round me, and my name 

was borne 
Upon her breath. Henceforth my 

name has been 
A hallow'd memory like the names of 

old, 
A centred, glory-circled memory, 
And a peculiar treasure, brooking not 



r 



THE LOVER'S TALE 



369 



Exchange or currency ; and in that 

hour 
A hope flow'd round me, like a golden 

mist 
Charm' d amid eddies of melodious 

airs, 440 

A moment, ere the onward whirlwind 

shatter it, 
Waver'd and floated — which was less 

than Hope, 
Because it lack'd the power of perfect 

Hope; 
But which was more and higher than 

all Hope, 
Because all other Hope had lower 

aim ; 
Even that this name to which her 

gracious lips 
Did lend such gentle utterance, this 

one name, 
In some obscure hereafter, might in- 

wreathe — 
How lovelier, nobler then ! — her life, 

her love, 
With my life, love, soul, spirit, and 

heart and strength. 450 

* Brother/ she said, 'let this be call'd 

henceforth 
The Hill of Hope ;' and I replied, 

* O sister, 
My will is one with thine ; the Hill 

of Hope/ 
Nevertheless, we did not change the 

name. 

I did not speak ; I could not speak 
my love. 

Love lieth deep, Love dwells not in 
lip-depths. 

Love wraps his wings on either side 
the heart, 

Constraining it with kisses close and 
warm, 

Absorbing all the incense of sweet 
thoughts 

So that they pass not to the shrine of 
sound. 460 

Else had the life of that delighted hour 

Drunk in the largeness of the utter- 
ance 

Of Love ; but how should earthly 
measure mete 

The heavenly-unmeasured or unlim- 
ited Love, 

Who scarce can tune his high majestic 
sense 



Unto the thunder-song that wheels 

the spheres, 
Scarce living in the ^Eolian harmony, 
And flowing odor of the spacious air. 
Scarce housed within the circle of this 

earth, 
Be cabin' d up in words and syllables, 
Which pass with that which breathes 

them ? Sooner earth 47I 

Might go round heaven, and the strait 

girth of Time 
Inswathe the fulness of Eternity, 
Than language grasp the infinite of 

Love. 

O day which did enwomb that 
happy hour, 

Thou art blessed in the years, divin- 
est day ! 

O Genius of that hour which dost up- 
hold 

Thy coronal of glory like a god, 

Amid thy melancholy mates far-seen, 

Who walk before thee, ever turning 
round 480 

To gaze upon thee till their eyes are 
dim 

With dwelling on the light and depth 
of thine, 

Thy name is ever worshipp'd among 
hours ! 

Had I died then, I had not seem'd to 
die, 

For bliss stood round me like the light 
of heaven, — 

Had I died then, I had not known the 
death ; 

Yea, had the Power from whose right 
hand the light 

Of Life issueth, and from whose left 
hand floweth 

The Shadow of Death, perennial efflu- 
ences, 

Whereof to all that draw the whole- 
some air, 490 

Somewhile the one must overflow the 
other — 

Then had he stemm'd my day with 
night, and driven 

My current to the fountain whence it 
sprang, — 

Even his own abiding excellence — 

On me, methinks, that shock of gloom 
had fallen 

Unfelt, and in this glory 1 had merged 

The other, like the "sun* I gazed upon. 



37° 



THE LOVER'S TALE 



Which seeming for the moment due to 

death, 
And dipping his head low beneath the 

verge, 
Yet bearing round about him his own 

day, 500 

In confidence of unabated strength, 
Steppeth from heaven to heaven, 

from light to light, 
And holdeth his undimmed forehead 

far 
Into a clearer zenith, pure of cloud. 

We trod the shadow of the down- 
ward hill ; 

We past from light to dark. On the 
other side 

Is scoop'd a cavern and a mountain 
hall, 

Which none have fathom'd. If you 
go far in — 

The country people rumor — you may 
hear 

The moaning of the woman and the 
child, 510 

Shut in the secret chambers of the 
rock. 

I too have heard a sound — perchance 
of streams 

Running far on within its inmost halls, 

The home of darkness ; but the cavern- 
mouth, • 

Half overtrailed with a wanton weed, 

Gives birth to a brawling brook, that 
passing lightly 

Adown a natural stair of tangled 
roots, 

Is presently received in a sweet grave 

Of eglantines, a place of burial 

Far lovelier than its cradle ; for un- 
seen 520 

But taken with the sweetness of the 
place, 

It makes a constant bubbling melody 

That drowns the nearer echoes. 
Lower down 

Spreads out a little lake, that, flood- 
ing, leaves 

Low banks of yellow sand ; and from 
the woods 

That belt it rise three dark, tall 

cypresses, — 
Three cypresses, symbols of mortal 

woe, 
That men plant over graves. 



Hither we came, 
And sitting down upon the golden 

moss, 
Held converse sweet and low — low 

converse sweet, 53 o 

In which our voices bore least part. 

The wind 
Told a love-tale beside us, how he 

woo'd 
The waters, and the waters answering 

lisp'd 
To kisses of the wind, that, sick with 

love, 
Fainted at intervals, and grew again 
To utterance of passion. Ye cannot 

shape 
Fancy so fair as is this memory. 
Methought all excellence that ever 

was 
Had drawn herself from many thou- 
sand years, 
And all the separate Edens of this 

earth, 54 o 

To centre in this place and time. I lis- 

ten'd, 
And her words stole with most pre- 
vailing sweetness 
Into my heart, as thronging fancies 

come 
To boys and girls when summer days 

are new, 
And soul and heart and body are all 

at ease. 
What marvel my Camilla told me all ? 
It was so happy an hour, so sweet a 

place, 
And I was as the brother of her blood, 
And by that name I moved upon her 

breath ; 
Dear name, which had too much of 

nearness in it 550 

And heralded the distance of this time ! 
At first her voice was very sweet and 

low, 
As if she were afraid of utterance ; 
But in the onward current of her 

speech, — 
As echoes of the hollow-banked brooks 
Are fashion* d by the channel which 

they keep, — 
Her words did of their meaning borrow 

sound. 
Her cheek did catch the color of her 

words. 
I heard and trembled, yet I could but 

hear ; 



THE LOVER'S TALE 




* Lower down 
Spreads out a little lake ' 



My heart paused — my raised eyelids 

would not fall, 560 

But still I kept my eyes upon the sky. 
I seem'd the only part of Time stood 

still, 
And saw the motion of all other things ; 
While her words, syllable by syllable, 
Like water, drop by drop, upon my ear 
Fell, and I wish'd, yet wish'd her not 

to speak ; 
But she spake on, for I did name no 

wish. 
What marvel my Camilla told me all 
Her maiden dignities of Hope and 

Love — 
'Perchance,' she said, 'return'd'? 

Even then the stars 570 

Did tremble in their stations as I gazed ; 
But she spake on, for I did name no 

wish, 
No wish — no hope. Hope was not 

wholly dead, 
But breathing hard at the approach of 

death, — 
Camilla, my Camilla, who was mine 
No longer in the dearest sense of 

mine — 
For all the secret of her inmost heart, 
And all the maiden empire of her mind, 
Lay like a map before me, and I saw 
There, where I hoped myself to reign 

as king, 580 



There, where that day I crown' d my- 
self as king, 
There in my realm and even on my 

throne, 
Another ! Then it seem'd as tho' a link 
Of some tight chain within my inmost 

frame 
Was riven in twain ; that life I heeded 

not 
Flow'd from me, and the darkness of 

the grave, 
The darkness of the grave and utter 

night, 
Did swallow up my vision ; at her feet, 
Even the feet of her I loved, I fell, 
Smit with exceeding sorrow unto 

death. 59° 

Then had the earth beneath me 

yawning cloven 
With such a sound as when an iceberg 

splits 
From cope to base — had Heaven from 

all her doors, 
With all her golden thresholds clash- 
ing, roll'd 
Her heaviest thunder — I had lain as 

dead, 
Mute, blind, and motionless as then I 

lay ; 
Dead, for henceforth there was no lite 

for me ! 



37 2 



THE LOVER'S TALE 



Mute, for henceforth what use were 

words to me ? 
Blind, for the day was as the night to 

me ! 
The night to me was kinder than the 

day ; 600 

The night in pity took away my day, 
Because my grief as yet was newly 

born 
Of eyes too weak to look upon the 

light ; 
And thro' the hasty notice of the ear 
Frail Life was startled from the tender 

love 
Of him she brooded over. Would I had 

lain 
Until the plaited ivy-tress had wound 
Round my worn limbs, and the wild 

brier had driven 
Its knotted thorns thro' my unpaining 

brows, 
Leaning its roses on my faded eyes. 
The wind had blown above me, and 

the rain 61 1 

Had fallen upon me, and the gilded 

snake 
Had nestled in this bosom-throne of 

Love, 
But I had been at rest for evermore. 

Long time entrancement held me. 

All too soon 
Life — like a wanton, too-officious 

friend, 
Who will not hear denial, vain and rude 
With proffer of unwish'd-f or services — 
Entering all the avenues of sense 
Past thro' into his citadel, the brain, 
With hated warmth of apprehensive- 

ness. 621 

And first the chillness of the sprinkled 

brook 
Smote on my brows, and then I seem'd 

to hear 
Its murmur, as the drowning seaman 

hears, 
Who with his head below the surface 

dropt 
Listens the muffled booming indistinct 
Of the confused floods, and dimly 

knows 
His head shall rise no more ; and then 

came in 
The white light of the weary moon 

above, 
Diffused and molten into flaky cloud. 



Was my sight drunk that it did shape 

to me 631 

Him who should own that name ? 

Were it not well 
If so be that the echo of that name 
Ringing within the fancy had updrawn 
A fashion and a phantasm of the form 
It should attach to ? Phantom ! — had 

the ghastliest 
That ever lusted for a body, sucking 
The foul steam of the grave to thicken 

by it, 
There in the shuddering moonlight 

brought its face 
And what it has for eyes as close to 

mine 640 

As he did — better that than his, than 

he 
The friend, the neighbor, Lionel, the 

beloved, 
The loved, the lover, the happy Lionel, 
The low-voiced, tender-spirited Lionel, 
All joy, to whom my agony was a joy. 
O, how her choice did leap forth from 

his eyes ! 
O, how her love did clothe itself in 

smiles 
About his lips ! and — not one mo- 
ment's grace — 
Then when the effect weigh'd seas 

upon my head 
To come my way ! to twit me with 

the cause ! 650 

Was not the land as free thro' all 

her ways 
To him as me ? Was not his wont to 

walk 
Between the going light and growing 

night ? 
Had I not learnt my loss before he 

came? 
Could that be more because he came 

my way ? 
Why should he not come my way if 

he would ? 
And yet to-night, to-night — when all 

my wealth 
Flash' d from me in a moment and I 

fell 
Beggar'd for ever — why should he 

come my way 
Robed in those robes of light I must 

not wear, 660 

With that great crown of beams about 

his brows — 






THE LOVER'S TALE 



373 



Gome like an angel to a damned soul, 
To tell him of the bliss he had with 

God- 
Come like a careless and a greedy heir 
That scarce can wait the reading of 

the will 
Before he takes possession ? Was mine 

a mood 
To be invaded rudely, and not rather 
A sacred, secret, unapproached woe, 
Unspeakable? I was shut up with 

Grief; 
She took the body of my past delight, 
Narded and swathed and balm'd it for 

herself, 671 

And laid it in a sepulchre of rock 
Never to rise again. I was led mute 
Into her temple like a sacrifice ; 
I was the High Priest in her holiest 

place, 
Not to be loudly broken in upon. 

O friend, thoughts deep and heavy 

as these well-nigh 
O'erbore the limits of my brain : but he 
Bent o'er me, and my neck his arm 

upstay'd. 
I thought it was an adder's fold, and 

once 680 

I strove to disengage myself, but 

fail'd, 
Being so feeble. She bent above me, 

too; 
Wan was her cheek, for whatsoe'er of 

blight 
Lives in the dewy touch of pity had 

made 
The red rose there a pale one — and 

her eyes — 
I saw the moonlight glitter on their 

tears — 
And some few drops of that distress- 
ful rain 
Fell on my face, and her long ringlets 

moved, 
Drooping and beaten by the breeze, 

and brush'd 
My fallen forehead in their to and fro, 
For in the sudden anguish of her 

heart 691 

Loosed from their simple thrall they 

had flow'd abroad, 
And floated on and parted round her 

neck, 
Mantling her form halfway. She, 

when I woke, 



Something she ask'd, I know not what, 

and ask'd, 
Unanswer'd, since I spake not ; for the 

sound 
Of that dear voice so musically 

low, 
And now first heard with any sense of 

pain, 
As it had taken life away before, 
Choked all the syllables that strove to 

rise 7 oo 

From my full heart. 

The blissful lover, too, 
From his great hoard of happiness dis- 

till'd 
Some drops of solace ; like a vain rich 

man, 
That, having always prosper'd in the 

world, 
Folding his hands, deals comfortable 

words 
To hearts wounded for ever ; yet, in 

truth, 
Fair speech was his and delicate of 

phrase, 
Falling in whispers on the sense, ad- 

dress'd 
More to the inward than the outward 

ear, 
As rain of the midsummer midnight 

SOft, 710 

Scarce-heard, recalling fragrance and 

the green 
Of the dead spring: but mine was 

wholly dead, 
No bud, no leaf, no flower, no fruit for 

me. 
Yet who had done, or who had suffer'd 

wrong ? 
And why was I to darken their pure 

love? 
If, as I found, they two did love each 

other, 
Because my own was darken'd ? Why 

was I 
To cross between their happy star and 

them? 
To stand a shadow by their shining 

doors, 
And vex them with my darkness ? Did 

I love her ? 720 

Ye know that I did love her ; to this 

present 
My full-orb'd love has waned not. Did 

I love her, 



374 



THE LOVER'S TALE 



And could I look upon her tearful 

eyes? 
What had she done to weep? Why 

should she weep ? 

innocent of spirit — let my heart 
Break rather — whom the gentlest airs 

of heaven 

Should kiss with an unwonted gentle- 
ness. 

Her love did murder mine ? What 
then ? She deem'd 

1 wore a brother's mind ; she call'dme 

brother. 
She told me all her love ; she shall not 
weep. 730 

The brightness of a burning thought, 

awhile 
In battle with the glooms of my dark 

will, ' 
Moonlike emerged, and to itself lit up 
There on the depth of an unfathom'd 

woe 
Reflex of action. Starting up at once, 
As from a dismal dream of my own 

death, 
I, for I loved her, lost my love in Love ; 
I, for I loved her, graspt the hand she 

loved, 
And laid it in her own, and sent my 

cry 
Thro' the blank night to Him who 

loving made 740 

The happy and the unhappy love, that 

He 
Would hold the hand of blessing over 

them, 
Lionel, the happy, and her, and her, 

his bride ! 
Let them so love that men and boys 

may say, 
' Lo ! how they love each other ! ' till 

their love 
Shall ripen to a proverb, unto all 
Known, when their faces are forgot in 

the land — 
One golden dream of love, from which 

may death 
Awake them with heaven's music in a 

life 
More living to some happier happi- 
ness, 750 
Swallowing its precedent in victory. 
And as for me, Camilla, as for me, — 
The dew of tears is an unwholesome 

dew, 



They will but sicken the sick plant the 

more. 
Deem that I love thee but as brothers 

do, 
So shalt thou love me still as sisters do ; 
Or if thou dream aught farther, dream 

but how 
I could have loved thee, had there 

been none else 
To love as lovers, loved again by thee. 

Or this, or somewhat like to this, I 

spake, 760 

When I beheld her weep so ruefully ; 
For sure my love should ne'er indue 

the front 
And mask of Hate, who lives on others' 

moans. 
Shall Love pledge Hatred in her bitter 

draughts, 
And batten on her poisons ? Love 

forbid ! 
Love passe th not the threshold of cold 

Hate, 
And Hate is strange beneath the roof 

of Love. 
O Love, if thou be'st Love, dry up 

these tears 
Shed for the love of Love ; for tho' 

mine image, 
The subj ect of thy power, be cold in 

her, 770 

Yet, like cold snow, it melteth in the 

source 
Of these sad tears, and feeds their 

downward flow. 
So Love, arraign'd to judgment and to 

death, 
Received unto himself a part of blame, 
Being guiltless, as an innocent pri- 
soner, 
Who, when the woful sentence hath 

been past, 
And all the clearness of his fame hath 

gone 
Beneath the shadow of the curse of 

man, 
First falls asleep in swoon, wherefrom 

awaked, 
And looking round upon his tearful 

friends, 780 

Forthwith and in his agony conceives 
A shameful sense as of a cleaving 

crime — 
For whence without some guilt should 

such grief be ? 



THE LOVER'S TALE 



375 



So died that hour, and fell into the 
abysm 

Of forms outworn, but not to me out- 
worn, 

Who never hail'd another — was there 
one? 

There might be one — one other, worth 
the life 

That made it sensible. So that hour 
died 

Like odor rapt into the winged wind 

Borne into alien lands and far away. 

There be some hearts so airily built, 
that they, 791 

They — when their love is wreck' d — 
if Love can wreck — 

On that sharp ridge of utmost doom 
ride highly 

Above the perilous seas of Change and 
Chance, 

Nay, more, hold out the lights of 
cheerfulness ; 

As the tall ship, that many a dreary 
year 

Knit to some dismal sandbank far at 
sea, 

All thro' the livelong hours of utter 
dark, 

Showers slanting light upon the dolor- 
ous wave. 



For me — what light, what gleam on 
those black ways 800 

Where Love could walk with banish' d 
Hope no more ? 

It was ill-done to part you, sisters 

fair; 
Love's arms were wreath'd about the 

neck of Hope, 
And Hope kiss'd Love, and Love drew 

in her breath 
In that close kiss, and drank her whis- 

per'd tales. 
They said that Love would die when 

Hope was gone, 
And Love mourn'd long, and sorrow'd 

after Hope ; 
At last she sought out Memory, and 

they trod 
The same old paths where Love had 

walk'd with Hope, 
And Memory fed the soul of Love with 

tears. 810 

II 

From that time forth I would not see 

her more ; 
But many weary moons I lived alone — 
Alone, and in the heart of the great 

forest. 




4 In the heart of the great forest ' 



37^ 



THE LOVER'S TALE 



Sometimes upon the hills beside the 

sea 
All day I watclrd the floating isles of 

shade, 
And sometimes on the shore, upon the 

sands 
Insensibly I drew her name, until 
The meaning of the letters shot into 
My brain; anon the wanton billow 

wash'd 
Them over, till they faded like my 

love. 10 

The hollow caverns heard me — the 

black brooks 
Of the mid-forest heard me — the soft 

winds, 
Laden with thistle-down and seeds of 

flowers, 
Paused in their course to hear me, for 

my voice 
Was all of thee ; the merry linnet 

knew me, 
The squirrel knew me, and the dragon- 

Shot by me like a flash of purple fire. 
The rough brier tore my bleeding 

palms ; the hemlock, 
Brow -high, did strike my forehead as 

I past ; 
Yet trod I not the wild-flower in my 

path, 20 

Nor bruised the wild-bird's egg. 

Was this the end ? 
Why grew we then together in one 

plot ? 
Why fed we from one fountain ? drew 

one sun ? 
Why were our mothers branches of 

one stem ? 
Why were we one in all things, save 

in that 
Where to have been one had been the 

cope and crown 
Of all I hoped and fear'd ? — if that 

same nearness 
Were father to this distance, and that 

one 
Vaunt courier to this double t if Affec- 
tion 
Living slew Love, and Sympathy 

hew'd out 30 

The bosom-sepulchre of Sympathy ? 

Chiefly I sought the cavern and the 
hill 



Where last we roam'd together, for 
the sound 

Of the loud stream was pleasant, and 
the wind 

Came wooingly with woodbine smells. 
Sometimes 

All day I sat within the cavern-mouth. 

Fixing my eyes on those three cypress- 
cones 

That spired above the wood ; and with 
mad hand 

Tearing the bright leaves of the ivy- 
screen, 

I cast them in the noisy brook be- 
neath, 40 

And watch' d them till they vanish'd 
from my sight 

Beneath the bower of wreathed eglan- 
tines. 

And all the fragments of the living 
rock, — 

Huge blocks, which some old trem- 
bling of the world 

Had loosen'd from the mountain, till 
they fell 

Half -digging their own graves, — 
these in my agony 

Did I make bare of all the golden 
moss, 

Wherewith the dashing runnel in the 
spring 

Had liveried them all over. In my 
brain 

The spirit seem'd to flag from thought 
to thought, 50 

As moonlight wandering thro' a mist ; 
my blood 

Crept like marsh drains thro' all my 
languid limbs ; 

The motions of my heart seem'd far 
within me, 

"[Infrequent, low, as tho' it told its 
pulses ; 

And yet it shook me, that my frame 
would shudder, 

As if 't were drawn asunder by the 
rack. 

But over the deep graves of Hope and 
Fear, 

And all the broken palaces of the past, 

Brooded one master-passion evermore, 

Like to a low-hung and a fiery sky 60 

Above some fair metropolis, earth- 
shock'd, — 

Hung round with ragged rims and 
burning folds, — 



THE LOVER'S TALE 



377 



Emba thing all with wild and woful 

hues, 
Great hills of ruins, and collapsed 

masses 
Of thunder-shaken columns indistinct, 
And fused together in the tyrannous 

light — 
Ruins, the ruin of all my life and me ! 

Sometimes I thought Camilla was no 
more ; 

Some one had told me she was dead, 
and ask'd 

If I would see her burial. Then I 
seem'd 70 

To rise, and through the forest-shadow 
borne 

With more than mortal swiftness, I ran 
down 

The steepy sea-bank, till I came 
upon 

The rear of a procession, curving round 

The silver- sheeted bay, in front of 
which 

Six stately virgins, all in white, upbare 

A broad earth-sweeping pall of whitest 
lawn, 

"Wreathed round the bier with gar- 
lands. In the distance, 

From out the yellow woods upon the 
hill 

Look'd forth the summit and the pin- 
nacles 80 

Of a gray steeple — thence at intervals 

A low bell tolling. All the pageantry, 

Save those six virgins w T hich upheld 
the bier, 

Were stoled from head to foot in flow- 
ing black ; 

One walk'd abreast with me, and veil'd 
his brow, 

And he was loud in weeping and in 
praise 

Of her we follow'd. A strong sym- 
pathy 

Shook all my soul; I flung myself 
upon him 

In tears and cries. I told him all my 
love, 

How I had loved her from the first ; 
whereat 90 

He shrank and howl'd, and from his 
brow drew back 

His hand to push me from him, and 
the face, 

The very face and form of Lionel 



Flash'd thro' my eyes into my inner- 
most brain, 

And at his feet I seem'd to faint and 
fall, 

To fall and die away. I could not 
rise, 

Albeit I strove to follow. They past 
on, 

The lordly phantasms ! in their float- 
ing folds 

They past and were no more ; but I 
had fallen 

Prone by the dashing runnel on the 
grass. 100 

Alway the inaudible, invisible 

thought, 
Artificer and subject, lord and slave, 
Shaped by the audible and visible, 
Moulded the audible and visible. 
All crisped sounds of wave and leaf 

and wind 
Flatter' d the fancy of my fading brain ; 
The cloud-pavilion'd element, the 

wood, 
The mountain, the three cypresses, the 

cave, 
Storm, sunset, glows and glories of the 

moon 
Below black firs, when silent-creeping 

winds no 

Laid the long night in silver streaks 

and bars, 
Were wrought into the tissue of my 

dream. 
The moanings in the forest, the loud 

brook, 
Cries of the partridge like a rusty key 
Turn'd in a lock, owl- whoop and dor- 
hawk-whirr 
Awoke me not, but were a part of 

sleep, 
And voices in the distance calling to 

me 
And in my vision bidding me dream 

on, 
Like sounds without the twilight 

realm of dreams, 
Which wander round the bases of the 

hills, 120 

And murmur at the low-dropt eaves of 

sleep, 
Half-entering the portals. Oftentimes 
The vision had fair prelude, in the end 
Opening on darkness, stately vesti- 
bules 



378 



THE LOVER'S TALE 



To caves and shows of death — whe- 
ther the mind, 
With some revenge — even to itself 

unknown — 
Made strange division of its suffering 
With her, whom to have suffering 

view'd had been 
Extremest pain ; or that the clear-eyed 

Spirit, 
Being blunted in the present, grew at 

length 130 

Prophetical and prescient of whate'er 
The future had in store ; or that which 

most 
Enchains belief, the sorrow of my 

spirit 
Was of so wide a compass it took in 
All I had loved, and my dull agony, 
Ideally to her transferr'd, became 
Anguish intolerable. 

The day waned ; 
Alone I sat with her. About my brow 
Her warm breath floated in the utter- 
ance 
Of silver-chorded tones ; her lips were. 

sunder'd 140 

With smiles of tranquil bliss, which 

broke in light 
Like morning from her eyes — her 

eloquent eyes — 
As I have seen them many a hundred 

times — 
Fill'd all with pure clear fire, thro' 

mine down rain'd 
Their spirit-searching splendors. As 

a vision 
Unto a haggard prisoner, iron-stay'd 
In damp and dismal dungeons under- 
ground, 
Confined on points of faith, when 

strength is shock' d 
With torment, and expectancy of 

worse 
Upon the morrow, thro' the ragged 

walls, 150 

All unawares before his half-shut 

eyes, 
Comes in upon him in the dead of 

night, 
And with the excess of sweetness and 

of awe, 
Makes the heart tremble, and the sight 

run over 
Upon his steely gyves ; so those fair 

eyes 



Shone on my darkness, forms which 

ever stood 
Within the magic cirque of memory, 
Invisible but deathless, waiting still 
The edict of the will to reassume 
The semblanpe of those rare realities 
Of which they were the mirrors. Now 

the light 16 r 

Which was their life burst through 

the cloud of thought 
Keen, irrepressible. 

It was a room 
Within the summer-house of which I 

spake, 
Hung round with paintings of the 

sea, and one 
A vessel in mid-ocean, her heaved 

prow 
Clambering, the mast bent and the 

ravin wind 
In her sail roaring. From the outer 

day, 
Betwixt the close-set ivies came a 

broad 
And solid beam of isolated light, 170 
Crowded with driving atomies, and 

fell 
Slanting upon that picture, from 

prime youth 
Well-known, well-loved. She drew 

it long ago 
Forthgazing on the waste and open 

sea, 
One morning wiien the upblown bil- 
low ran 
Shoreward beneath red clouds, and I 

had pour'd 
Into the shadowing pencil's naked 

forms 
Color and life. It was a bond and 

seal 
Of friendship, spoken of with tearful 

smiles ; 
A monument of childhood and of 

love ; 180 

The poesy of childhood, my lost love 
Symboll'd in storm. We gazed on it 

together 
In mute and glad remembrance, and 

each heart 
Grew closer to the other, and the eye 
Was riveted and charm-bound, gazing 

like 
The Indian on a still-eyed snake, low- 

couch'd — 



THE LOVER'S TALE 



379 



A beauty which is death ; when all at 

once 
That painted vessel, as with inner life, 
Began to heave upon that painted 

sea. 
An earthquake, my loud heart-beats, 

made the ground 190 

Reel under us, and all at once, soul, 

life 
And breath and motion, past and 

flow'd away 
To those unreal billows. Round and 

round 
A whirlwind caught and bore us; 

mighty gyres 
Rapid and vast, of hissing spray wind- 
driven 
Far thro' the dizzy dark. Aloud she 

shriek'd ; 
My heart was cloven with pain ; I 

wound my arms 
About her ; we whirl'd giddily ; the 

wind 
Sung, but I clasp'd her without fear. 

Her weight 
Shrank in my grasp, and over my dim 

eyes, 200 

And parted lips which drank her 

breath, down-hung 
The jaws of Death. I, groaning, 

from me flung 
Her empty phantom ; all the sway 

and whirl 
Of the storm dropt to windless calm, 

and I 
Down welter' d thro' the dark ever and 

ever. 

Ill 

I came one day and sat among the 

stones 
Strewn in the entry of the moaning 

cave ; 
A morning air, sweet after rain, ran 

over 
The rippling levels of the lake, and 

blew 
Coolness and moisture and all smells 

of bud 
And foliage from the dark and drip- 
ping woods 
Upon my fever' d brows that shook 

and throbb'd 
From temple unto temple. To what 

height 



The 



day had grown I know not. 

Then came on me 
The hollow tolling of the bell, and 

all IO 

The vision of the bier. As heretofore 
I walk'd behind with one who veil'd 

his brow. 
Methought by slow degrees the sullen 

bell 
Toll'd quicker, and the breakers on 

the shore 
Sloped into louder surf. Those that 

went with me, 
And those that held the bier before 

my face, 
Moved with one spirit round about 

the bay, 
Trod swifter steps; and while I 

walk'd with these 
In marvel at that gradual change, 

I thought 
Four bells instead of one began to 

ring, 20 

Four merry bells, four merry mar- 
riage-bells, 
In clanging cadence jangling peal on 

peal — 
A long loud clash of rapid marriage- 
bells. 
Then those who led the van, and those 

in rear, 
Rush'd into dance, and like wild 

Bacchanals 
Fled onward to the steeple in the 

woods. 
I, too, was borne along and felt the 

blast 
Beat on my heated eyelids. All at 

once 
The front rank made a sudden halt ; 

the bells 
Lapsed into frightful stillness; the 

surge fell 30 

From thunder into whispers; those 

six maids 
With shrieks and ringing laughter on 

the sand 
Threw down the bier ; the woods 

upon the hill 
Waved with a sudden gust that 

sweeping down 
Took the edges of the pall, and blew 

it far 
Until it hung, a little silver cloud 
Over the sounding seas. I turn'd ; 

my heart 



3 8o 



THE LOVER'S TALE 



Shrank in me, like a snowflake in the 

hand, 
Waiting to see the settled countenance 
Of her I loved, adorn' d with fading 

flowers. 40 

But she from out her death-like chrys- 
alis, 
She from her bier, as into fresher life, 
My sister, and my cousin, and my 

love, 
Leapt lightly clad in bridal white — 

her hair 
Studded with one rich Provence rose 

— a light 
Of smiling welcome round her lips — 

her eyes 
And cheeks as bright as when she 

climb' d the hill. 
One hand she reach' d to those that 

came behind, 
And while I mused nor yet endured to 

take 
So rich a prize, the man who stood 

with me 50 

Stept gaily forward, throwing down 

his robes, 
And clasp t her hand in his. Again 

the bells 
Jangled and clang'd ; again the 

stormy surf 
Crash' d in the shingle ; and the whirl- 
ing rout 
Led by those two rush'd into dance, 

and fled 
Wind-footed to the steeple in the 

woods, 
Till they were swallow'd in the leafy 

bowers, 
And I stood sole beside the vacant 

bier. 

There, there, my latest vision — 
then the event ! 



IV 
THE GOLDEN SUPPER 1 

(Another speaks) 

He flies the event ; he leaves the event 

to me. 
Poor Julian — how he rush'd away ; 

the bells, 
1 This poem is founded upon a story in 
Boccaccio. See Introduction, p. 2. 



Those marriage-bells, echoing in ear 

and heart — 
But cast a parting glance at me, you 

saw, 
As who should say ' Continue.' Well, 

he had 
One golden hour — of triumph shall I 

say ? 
Solace at least — before he left his 

home. 

Would you had seen him in that 

hour of his ! 
He moved thro' all of it majesti- 
cally — 
Restrain' d himself quite to the close 

— but now — 10 

Whether they were his lady's marriage- 
bells, 
Or prophets of them in his fantasy, 
I never ask'd ; but Lionel and the 

girl 
Were wedded, and our Julian came 

again 
Back to his mother's house among the 

pines. 
But these, their gloom, the mountains 

and the Bay, 
The whole land weigh'd him down as 

^Etna does 
The Giant of Mythology ; he would 

go, 
Would leave the land for ever, and 

had gone 
Surely, but for a whisper, 'Go not 

yet,' 20 

Some warning — sent divinely — as it 

seem'd 
By that which follow'd — but of this 

I deem 
As of the visions that he told — the 

event 
Glanced back upon them in his after 

life, 
And partly made them — tho' he knew 

it not. 

And thus he stay'd and would not 

look at her — 
No, not for months; but, when the 

eleventh moon 
After their marriage lit the lover's Bay, 
Heard yet once more the tolling bell, 

and said, 
' Would you could toll me out of life ! ' 

but found — 30 



THE LOVER'S TALE 



38i 



All softly as his mother broke it to 

him — 
A crueller reason than a crazy ear 
For that low knell tolling his lady 

dead — 
Dead — and had lain three days with- 
out a pulse ; 
All that look'd on her had pronounced 

her dead. 
And so they bore her — for in Julian's 

land 
They never nail a dumb head up in 

elm — 
Bore her free-faced to the free airs of 

heaven, 
And laid her in the vault of her own kin. 

What did he then ? not die — he is 

here and hale — 40 

Not plunge headforemost from the 

mountain there, 
And leave the name of Lover's Leap, 

not he. 
He knew the meaning of the whisper 

now, 
Thought that he knew it. 'This, I 

stay'd for this ; 

Love, I have not seen you for so 

long ! 
Now, now, will I go down into the 
grave, 

1 will be all alone with all I love, 
And kiss her on the lips. She is his 

no more ; 
The dead returns to me, and I go down 
To kiss the dead.' 

The fancy stirr'd him so 
He rose and went, and, entering the 

dim vault 51 

And making there a sudden light, be- 
held 
All round about him that which all 

will be. 
The light was but a flash, and went 

again. 
Then at the far end of the vault he saw 
His lady with the moonlight on her 

face; 
Her breast as in a shadow-prison, bars 
Of black and bands of silver, which 

the moon 
Struck from an open grating overhead 
High in the wall, and all the rest of her 
Drown' d in the gloom and horror of 

the vault. 61 



1 It was my wish,' he said, ' to pass, 

to sleep, 
To rest, to be with her — till the great 

day 
Peal'd on us with that music which 

rights all, 
And raised us hand in hand.' And 

kneeling there 
Down in the dreadful dust that once 

was man, 
' Dust/ as he said, ' that once was lov- 
ing hearts, 
Hearts that had beat with such a love 

as mine — 
Not such as mine, no, nor for such as 

her/ — 
He softly put his arm about her 

neck 70 

And kiss'd her more than once, till 

helpless death 
And silence made him bold — nay, but 

I wrong him, 
He reverenced his dear lady even in 

death ; 
But, placing his true hand upon her 

heart, 
'O you warm heart/ he moan'd, 'not 

even death 
Can chill you all at once ' — then, start- 
ing, thought 
His dreams had come again. ' Do I 

wake or sleep ? 
Or am I made immortal, or my 

love 
Mortal once more?' It beat — the 

heart — it beat ; 
Faint — but it beat ; at which his own 

began 80 

To pulse with such a vehemence that 

it drown' d 
The feebler motion underneath his 

hand. 
But when at last his doubts were sat- 
isfied 
He raised her softly from the sepul- 
chre, 
And, wrapping her all over with the 

cloak 
He came in, and now striding fast, and 

now 
Sitting awhile to rest, but evermore 
Holding his golden burthen in his 

arms. 
So bore her thro' the solitary land 
Back to the mother's house where ^1h i 

was born. 90 



382 



THE LOVER'S TALE 



There the good mother's kindly 

ministering, 
With half a night's appliances, recall'd 
Her fluttering life. She rais'd an eye 

that ask'd 
' Where ? ' till the things familiar to 

her youth 
Had made a silent answer ; then she 

spoke 
1 Here ! and how came I here ? ' and 

learning it — 
They told her somewhat rashly, as I 

think — 
At once began to wander and to 

wail, 
1 Ay, but you know that you must give 

me back. 
Send ! bid him come ; ' but Lionel was 

away — ioo 

Stung by his loss had vanish'd, none 

knew where. 
1 He casts me out/ she wept, ' and 

goes ' — a wail 
That, seeming something, yet was no- 
thing, born 
Not from believing mind but shatter' d 

nerve, 
Yet haunting Julian, as her own re- 
proof 
At some precipitance in her burial. 
Then, when her own true spirit had 

return' d, 
'O, yes, and you,' she said, 'and none 

but you ? 
For you have given me life and love 

again, 
And none but you yourself shall tell 

him of it, no 

And you shall give me back when he 

returns/ 
* Stay then a little,' answer'd Julian, 

1 here, 
And keep yourself, none knowing, to 

yourself ; 
And I will do your will. I may not 

stay, 
No, not an hour ; but send me notice 

of him 
When he returns, and then will I re- 
turn, 
And I will make a solemn offering of 

you 
To him you love.' And faintly she 

replied. 
c And I will do your will, and none 

shall know.' 



Not know ? with such a secret to be 
known. i 2 o 

But all their house was old and loved 
them both, 

And all the house had known the loves 
of both, 

Had died almost to serve them any 
way, 

And all the land was waste and soli- 
tary. 

And then he rode away ; but after 
this, 

An hour or two, Camilla's travail came 

Upon her, and, that day a boy was born, 

Heir of his face and land, to Lionel. 

And thus our lonely lover rode away, 
And pausing at a hostel in a marsh, 130 
There fever seized upon him. Myself 

was then 
Travelling that land, and meant to rest 

an hour ; 
And sitting down to such abase repast, 
It makes me angry yet to speak of it — 
I heard a groaning overhead, and 

climb'd 
The moulder'd stairs — for everything 

was vile — 
And in a loft, with none to wait on 

him, 
Found, as it seem'd, a skeleton alone, 
Raving of dead men's dust and beating 

hearts. 

A dismal hostel in a dismal land, 140 
A flat malarian world of reed and rush ! 
But there from fever and my care of 

him 
Sprang up a friendship that may help 

us yet. 
For while we roam'd along the dreary 

coast, 
And waited for her message, piece by 

piece 
I learnt the drearier story of his life ; 
And, tho' he loved and honor'd Lionel, 
Found that the sudden wail his lady 

made 
Dwelt in his fancy. Did he know her 

worth, 
Her beauty even ? should he not be 

taught, 150 

Even by the price that others set upon 

it, 
The value of that jewel he had to 

guard ? 



THE LOVER'S TALE 



3&3 



Suddenly came her notice and we 
past, 
I with our lover to his native Bay. 

This love is of the brain, the mind, 

the soul ; 
That makes the sequel pure, tho' some 

of us 
Beginning at the sequel know no more. 
Not such am I ; and yet I say the 

bird 
That will not hear my call, however 

sweet, 
But if my neighbor whistle answers 

him — 160 

What matter ? there are others in the 

wood. 
Yet when I saw her — and I thought 

him crazed, 
Tho' not with such acraziness as needs 
A cell and keeper — those dark eyes 

of hers — 
O, such dark eyes ! and not her eyes 

alone, 
But all from these to where she touch'd 

• on earth, 
For such a craziness as Julian's look'd 
No less than one divine apology. 

So sweetly and so modestly she came 
To greet us, her young hero in her 

arms! 170 

'Kiss him,' she said. 'You gave me 

life again. 
He, but for you, had never seen it 

once. 
His other father you ! Kiss him, and 

then 
Forgive him, if his name be Julian 

too.' 

Talk of lost hopes and broken heart ! 

his own 
Sent such a flame into his face, I knew 
Some sudden vivid pleasure hit him 

there. 

But he was all the more resolved to 

go, 
And sent at once to Lionel, praying 

him, 
By that great love they both had 

borne the dead, 180 

To come and revel for one hour with 

him 
Before he left the land for evermore ; 



And then to friends — they were not 
many — who lived 

Scatteringly about that lonely land of 
his, 

And bade them to a banquet of fare- 
wells. 

And Julian made a solemn feast ; I 

never 
Sat at a costlier, for all round his hall 
From column on to column, as in a 

wood, 
Not such as here — an equatorial one, 
Great garlands swung and blossom' d ; 

and beneath, 190 

Heirlooms, and ancient miracles of 

art, 
Chalice and salver, wines that, heaven 

knows when, 
Had suck'd the fire of some forgotten 

sun, 
And kept it thro' a hundred years of 

gloom, 
Yet glowing in a heart of ruby — cups 
Where nymph and god ran ever round 

in gold — 
Others of glass as costly — some with 

gems 
Movable and resettable at will, 
And trebling all the rest in value — 

Ah heavens ! 
Why need I tell you all ? — suffice to 

say 200 

That whatsoever such a house as his, 
And his was old, has in it rare or fair 
Was brought before the guest. And 

they, the guests, 
Wonder'd at some strange light in 

Julian's eyes — 
I told you that he had his golden hour — 
And such a feast, ill-suited as it seem'd 
To such a time, to Lionel's loss and his 
And that resolved self- exile from a land 
He never would revisit, such a feast 
So rich, so strange, and stranger even 

than rich, 210 

But rich as for the nuptials of a king. 

And stranger yet, at one end of the 

hall 
Two great funereal curtains, looping 

down, 
Parted a little ere they met the floor, 
About a picture of his lady, taken 
Some years before, and falling hid 

the frame. 



3^4 



THE LOVER'S TALE 



And just above the parting was a 

lamp ; 
So the sweet figure folded round with 

night 
Seem'd stepping out of darkness with 

a smile. 

Well, then — our solemn feast — we 

ate and drank, 220 

And might — the wines being of such 

nobleness — 
Have jested also, but for Julian's 

eyes, 
And something weird and wild about 

it all. 
What was it ? for our lover seldom 

spoke, 
Scarce touch'd the meats, but ever 

and anon 
A priceless goblet with a priceless wine 
Arising show'd he drank beyond his 

use; 
And when the feast was near an end, 

he said : 

'There is a custom in the Orient, 
friends — 
I read of it in Persia — when a man 230 
Will honor those who feast with him, 

he brings 
And shows them whatsoever he ac- 
counts 
Of all his treasures the most beautiful, 
Gold, jewels, arms, whatever it may 

be. 
This custom ' — 

Pausing here a moment, all 
The guests broke in upon him with 

meeting hands 
And cries about the banquet — ' Beau- 
tiful ! 
Who could desire more beauty at a 
feast ? ' 

The lover answer' d : ' There is more 

than one 
Here sitting who desires it. Laud me 

not 240 

Before my time, but hear me to the 

close. 
This custom steps yet further when 

the guest 
Is loved and honor'd to the uttermost. 
For after he hath shown him gems or 

gold, 



He brings and sets before him in rich 

guise 
That which is thrice as beautiful as 

these, 
The beauty that is dearest to his 

heart — 
"O my heart's lord, would I could 

show you," he says, 
"Even my heart too." And I propose 

to-night 
To show you what is dearest to my 

heart, 250 

And my heart too. 

' But solve me first a doubt. 

I knew a man, not many years ago ; 

He had a faithful servant, one who 
loved 

His master more than all on earth be- 
side. 

He falling sick, and seeming close on 
death, 

His master would not wait until he 
died, 

But bade his menials bear him from 
the door, 

And leave him in the public way to 
die. 

I knew another, not so long ago, 

Who found the dying servant, took 
him home, 260 

And fed, and cherish'd him, and saved 
his life. 

I ask you now, should this first mas- 
ter claim 

His service, whom does it belong to ? 
him 

Who thrust him out, or him who 
saved his life ? ' 

This question, so flung down before 

the guests, 
And balanced either way by each, at 

length 
When some were doubtful how the 

law would hold, 
Was handed over by consent of all 
To one who had not spoken, Lionel. 

Fair speech was his, and delicate of 

phrase. 270 

And he, beginning languidly — his loss 

Weigh'd on him yet — but warming 

as he went, 
Glanced at the point of law, to pass 
it by, 



THE LOVER'S TALE 



38 5 



Affirming that as long as either lived, 
By all the laws of love and grateful- 
ness, 
The service of the one so saved was due 
All to the saver — adding, with a smile, 
The first for many weeks — a semi- 
smile 
As at a strong conclusion — ' body 

and soul 
And life and limbs, all his to work his 
will/ 280 

Then Julian made a secret sign to me 
To bring Camilla down before them 

all. 
And crossing her own picture as she 

came, 
And looking as much lovelier as her- 
self 
Is lovelier than all others — on her head 
A diamond circlet, and from under this 
A veil, that seem'd no more than 

gilded air, 
Flying by each fine ear, an Eastern 

gauze 
With seeds of gold — so, with that 

grace of hers, 
Slow-moving as a wave against the 

wind, 290 

That flings a mist behind it in the sun — 
And bearing high in arms the mighty 

babe, 
The younger Julian, who himself was 

crown'd 
With roses, none so rosy as himself — 
And over all her babe and her the 

jewels 
Of many generations of his house 
Sparkled and flash'd, for he had deck'd 

them out 
As for a solemn sacrifice of love — 
So she came in — I am long in telling 

it, 
I never yet beheld a thing so strange, 
Sad, sweet, and strange together — 

floated in — 301 

While all the guests in mute amaze- 
ment rose — 
And slowly pacing to the middle hall, 
Before the board, there paused and 

stood, her breast 
Hard-heaving, and her eyes upon her 

feet, 
Not daring yet to glance at Lionel. 
But him she carried, him nor lights 

nor feast 



Dazed or amazed, nor eyes of men ; 

who cared 
Only to use his own, and staring wide 
And hungering for the gilt and jew- 

ell'd world 310 

About him, look'd, as he is like to 

prove, 
When Julian goes, the lord of all he 

saw. 

'My guests/ said Julian, 'you are 

honor' d now' 

Even to the uttermost ; in her behold 

Of all my treasures the most beautiful, 

Of all things upon earth the dearest to 

me ; ' 
Then waving us a sign to seat our- 
selves, 
Led his dear lady to a chair of state. 
And I, by Lionel sitting, saw his 

face 
Fire, and dead ashes and all fire again 
Thrice in a second, felt him tremble 

tOO, 321 

And heard him muttering, ' So like, so 

like; 
She never had a sister. I knew none. 
Some cousin of his and hers — O God, 

so like ! ' 
And then he suddenly ask'd her if she 

were. 
She shook, and cast her eyes down, 

and was dumb. 
And then some other question'd if she 

came 
From foreign lands, and still she did 

not speak. 
Another, if the boy were hers ; but she 
To all their queries answer'd not a 

word, 330 

Which made the amazement more, till 

one of them 
Said, shuddering, ' Her spectre ! ' But 

his friend 
Replied, in half a whisper, 'Not at 

least 
The spectre that will speak if spoken 

to. 
Terrible pity, if one so beautiful 
Prove, as I almost dread to find her, 

dumb ! ' 

But Julian, sitting by her, answer'd 
all: 
1 She is but dumb, because in her you 
see 



3 86 



THE LOVER'S TALE 



That faithful servant whom we spoke 

about, 
Obedient to her second master now ; 
Which will not last. I have here to- 
night a guest 341 
So bound to me by common love and 

loss — 
What ! shall I bind him more ? in his 

behalf, 
Shall I exceed the Persian, giving 

him 
That which of all things is the dearest 

to me, 
Not only showing ? and he himself 

pronounced 
That my rich gift is wholly mine to 

give. 

1 Now all be dumb, and promise all 

of you 
Not to break in on what I say by word 
Or whisper, while I show you all my 

heart/ 350 

And then began the story of his love 
As here to-day, but not so wordily — 
The passionate moment would not 

suffer that — 
Past thro' his visions to the burial; 

thence 
Down to this last strange hour in his 

own hall ; 
And then rose up, and with him all 

his guests 
Once more as by enchantment ; all but 

he, 
Lionel, who fain had risen, but fell 

again, 
And sat as if in chains — to whom he 

said : 

1 Take my free gift, my cousin, for 

your wife ; 360 

And were it only for the giver's sake, 



And tho' she seem so like the one you 

lost, 
Yet cast her not away so suddenly, 
Lest there be none left here to bring 

her back. 
I leave this land for ever.' Here he 

ceased. 

Then taking his dear lady by one 
hand, 

And bearing on one arm the noble babe, 

He slowly brought them both to Lio- 
nel. 

And there the widower husband and 
dead wife 

Rush'd each at each with a cry that 
rather seem'd 3 70 

For some new death than for a life 
renew'd ; 

Whereat the very babe began to wail. 

At once they turn'd, and caught and 
brought him in 

To their charm'd circle, and, half kill- 
ing him 

With kisses, round him closed and 
claspt again. 

But Lionel, when at last he freed him- 
self 

From wife and child, and lifted up a 
face 

All over glowing with the sun of life, 

And love, and boundless thanks — the 
sight of this 

So frighted our good friend that, turn- 
ing to me 380 

And saying, * It is over ; let us go' — 

There were our horses ready at the 
doors — 

We bade them no farewell, but mount- 
ing these 

He past for ever from his native land ; 

And I with him, my Julian, back to 
mine. 




Prince Albert 



IDYLLS OF THE KING 

IN TWELVE BOOKS 

1 Flos Regum Arthur us 1 — Joseph of Exeter 



DEDICATION 

These to His Memory — since he held 
them dear, 

Perchance as finding there uncon- 
sciously 

Some image of himself — I dedicate, 

I dedicate, I consecrate with tears — 

These Idylls. 



And indeed he seems to me 
Scarce other than my king's ideal 

knight, 
1 Who reverenced his conscience as his 

king ; 
Whose glory was, redressing human 

wrong ; 
Who spake no slander, no, nor listen d 

to it ; 



3 88 



IDYLLS OF THE KING 



Who loved one only and who clave to 
her ' — 10 

Her — over all whose realms to their 
last isle, 

Commingled with the gloom of immi- 
nent war, 

The shadow of his loss drew like 
eclipse, 

Darkening the world. We have lost 
him ; he is gone. 

We know him now ; all narrow jeal- 
ousies 

Are silent, and we see him as he moved, 

How modest, kindly, all-accomplish' d, 
wise, 

With what sublime repression of him- 
self, 

And in what limits, and how tenderly ; 

Not swaying to this faction or to 
that ; 20 

Not making his high place the lawless 
perch 

Of wing'd ambitions, nor a vantage- 
ground 

For pleasure ; but thro' all this tract 
of years 

Wearing the white flower of a blame- 
less life, 

Before a thousand peering littlenesses, 

In that fierce light which beats upon 
a throne 

And blackens every blot; for where 
is he 

Who dares foreshadow for an only 
son 

A lovelier life, a more unstain'd, than 
his? 

Or how should England dreaming of 
his sons 30 

Hope more for these than some inher- 
itance 

Of such a life, a heart, a mind as thine, 

Thou noble Father of her Kings to be, 

Laborious for her people and her 
poor — 

Voice in the rich dawn of an ampler 
day — 

Far-sighted summoner of War and 
Waste 

To fruitful strifes and rivalries of 
peace — 

Sweet nature gilded by the gracious 
gleam 

Of letters, dear to Science, dear to Art, 

Dear to thy land and ours, a Prince 
indeed, 40 



Beyond all titles, and a household 

name, 
Hereafter, thro' all times, Albert the 

Good. 

Break not, O woman's-heart, but 
still endure ; 

Break not, for thou art royal, but en- 
dure, 

Remembering all the beauty of that 
star 

Which shone so close beside thee that 
ye made 

One light together, but has past and 
leaves 

The Crown a lonely splendor. 

May all love, 
His love, unseen but felt, o'ershadow 

thee, 
The love of all thy sons encompass 

thee, 50 

The love of all thy daughters cherish 

thee, 
The love of all thy people comfort 

thee, 
Till God's love set thee at his side 

again ! 



THE COMING OF ARTHUR 

Leodogran, the king of Cameliard, 
Had one fair daughter, and none other 

child ; 
And she was fairest of all flesh on 

earth, 
Guinevere, and in her his one delight. 

For many a petty king ere Arthur 

came 
Ruled in this isle and, ever waging 

war 
Each upon other, wasted all the land ; 
And still from time to time the heathen 

host 
Swarm'd over-seas, and harried what 

was left. 
And so there grew great tracts of wil- 
derness, 10 
Wherein the beast was ever more and 

more, 
But man was less and less, till Arthur 

came. 
For first Aurelius lived and fought and 

died, 






THE COMING OF ARTHUR 



389 



And after him King Uther fought and 

died, 
But either fail'd to make the kingdom 

one. 
And after these King Arthur for a 

space, 
And thro' the puissance of his Table 

Round, 
Drew all their petty princedoms under 

him, 
Their king and head, and made a realm 

and reign'd. 

And thus the land of Cameliard was 

waste, 20 

Thick with wet woods, and many a 

beast therein, 
And none or few to scare or chase the 

beast ; 
So that wild dog and wolf and boar 

and bear 
Came night and day, and rooted in the 

fields, 
And wallow'd in the gardens of the 

King. 
And ever and anon the wolf would 

steal 
The children and devour, but now and 

then, 
Her own brood lost or dead, lent her 

fierce teat 
To human sucklings ; and the children, 

housed 
In her foul den, there at their meat 

would growl, 30 

And mock their foster-mother on four 

feet, 
Till, straighten'd, they grew up to 

wolf -like men, 
Worse than the wolves. And King 

Leodogran 
Groan'd for the Roman legions here 

again 
And Csesar's eagle. Then his brother 

king, 
Urien, assail'd him ; last a heathen 

horde, 
Reddening the sun with smoke and 

earth with blood, 
And on the spike that split the mother's 

heart 
Spitting the child, brake on him, till, 

amazed, 
He knew not whither he should turn 

for aid. 40 



But — for he heard of Arthur newly 

crown'd, 
Tho' not without an uproar made by 

those 
Who cried, 'He is not Uther's son' — 

the King 
Sent to him, saying, ' Arise, and help 

us thou ! 
For here between the man and beast 

we die.' 

And Arthur yet had done no deed 

of arms, 
But heard the call and came; and 

Guinevere 
Stood by the castle 'walls to watch 

him pass ; 
But since he neither wore on helm or 

shield 
The golden symbol of his kinglihood, 
But rode a simple knight among his 

knights, 5! 

And many of these in richer arms than 

he, 
She saw him not, or mark'd not, if she 

saw, 
One among many, tho' his face was 

bare. 
But Arthur, looking downward as he 

past, 
Felt the light of her eyes into his 

. life 
Smite on the sudden, yet rode on, and 

pitch' d 
His tents beside the forest. Then he 

drave 
The heathen; after, slew the beast, 

and fell'd 
The forest, letting in the sun, and 

made 60 

Broad pathways for the hunter and 

the knight, 
And so return'd. 

For while he linger' d there, 
A doubt that ever smoulder' d in the 

hearts 
Of those great lords and barons of his 

realm 
Flash'd forth and into war ; for most 

of these, 
Colleaguing with a score of petty 

kings, 
Made head against him, crying : ' Who 

is he 



39° 



IDYLLS OF THE KING 



That he should rule us ? who hath 

proven him 
King Uther's son ? for lo ! we look at 

him, 
And find nor face nor bearing, limbs 

nor voice, 70 

Are like to those of Uther whom we 

knew. 
This is the son of Gorloi's, not the 

King ; 
This is the son of Anton, not the 

King.' 

And Arthur, passing thence to 

battle, felt 
Travail, and throes and agonies of the 

life, 
Desiring to be join'd with Guinevere, 
And thinking as he rode : ' Her father 

said 
That there between the man and beast 

they die. 
Shall I not lift her from this land of 

beasts 
Up to my throne and side by side 

with me ? 80 

What happiness to reign a lonely 

king, 
Vext — O ye stars that shudder over 

me, 

earth that soundest hollow under 

me, 
Vext with waste dreams ? for saving 

I be join'd 
To her that is the fairest under heaven, 

1 seem as nothing in the mighty 

world, 
And cannot will my will nor work my 

work 
Wholly, nor make myself in mine 

own realm 
Victor and lord. But were I join'd 

with her, 
Then might we live together as one 

life, 90 

And reigning with one will in every- 
thing 
Have power on this dark land to 

lighten it, 
And power on this dead world to 

make it live.' 

Thereafter — as he speaks who tells 
the tale — 
When Arthur reach'd a field of battle 
bright 



With pitch'd pavilions of his foe, the 

world 
Was all so clear about him that he 

saw 
The smallest rock far on the faintest 

hill, 
And even in high day the morning 

star. 
So when the King had set his banner 

broad, 100 

At once from either side, with trum- 
pet-blast, 
And shouts, and clarions shrilling unto 

blood, 
The long-lanced battle let their horses 

run. 
And now the barons and the kings 

prevail'd, 
And now the King, as here and there 

that war 
Went swaying ; but the Powers who 

walk the world 
Made lightnings and great thunders 

over him, 
And dazed all eyes, till Arthur by 

main might, 
And mightier of his hands with every 

blow, 
And leading all his knighthood threw 

the kings, no 

Carados, Urien, Cradlemont of Wales, 
Claudius, and Clariance of Northum- 
berland, 
The King Brandagoras of Latangor, 
With Anguisant of Erin, Morganore, 
And Lot of Orkne}\ Then, before a 

voice 
As dreadful as the shout of one who 

sees 
To one who sins, and deems himself 

alone 
And all the world asleep, they swerved 

and brake 
Flying, and Arthur call'd to stay the 

brands 
That hack'd among the flyers, ' Ho ! 

they yield ! ' 120 

So like a painted battle the war 

stood 
Silenced, the living quiet as the dead, 
And in the heart "of Arthur joy was 

lord. 
He laugh'd upon his warrior whom he 

loved 
And honor'd most, 'Thou dost not 

doubt me Kine;, 



THE COMING OF ARTHUR 



39i 



So well thine arm hath wrought for 

me to-day/ 
1 Sir and my liege/ he cried, * the fire 

of God 
Descends upon thee in the battle-field. 
I know thee for my King ! ' Whereat 

the two, 
For each had warded either in the 

fight, 130 

Sware on the field of death a deathless 

love. 
And Arthur said, ' Man's word is God 

in man ; 
Let chance what will, I trust thee to 

the death/ 

Then quickly from the foughten 

field he sent 
Ulfius, and Brastias, and Bedivere, 
His new made knights, to King Leo- 

dogran, 
Saying, 'If I in aught have served 

thee well, 
Give me thy daughter Guinevere to 

wife/ 

Whom when he heard, Leodogran 

in heart 
Debating — ' How should I that am a 

king, 140 

However much he holp me at my 

need, 
Give my one daughter saving to a 

king, 
And a king's son ? ' — lifted his voice, 

and call'd 
A hoary man, his chamberlain, to 

whom 
He trusted all things, and of him re- 
quired 
His counsel : ' Knowest thou aught of 

Arthur's birth ? ' 

Then spake the hoary chamberlain 

and said : 
1 Sir King, there be but two old men 

that know ; 
And each is twice as old as I ; and one 
Is Merlin, the wise man that ever 

served 150 

King Uther thro' his magic art, and 

one 
Is Merlin's master — so they call him 

— Bleys, 
Who taught him magic ; but the 

scholar ran 



Before the master, and so far that 
Bleys 

Laid magic by, and sat him down, 
and wrote 

All things and whatsoever Merlin 
did 

In one great annal-book, where after- 
years 

Will learn the secret of our Arthur's 
birth/ 

To whom the King Leodogran re- 
plied : 

' O friend, had I been hoipen half as 
well 160 

By this King Arthur as by thee to- 
day, 

Then beast and man had had their 
share of me ; 

But summon here before us yet once 
more 

Ulfius, and Brastias, and Bedivere.' 

Then, when they came before him, 
the king said : 

'I have seen the cuckoo chased by 
lesser fowl, 

And reason in the chase ; but where- 
fore now 

Do these your lords stir up the heat 
of war, 

Some calling Arthur born of Gorloi's, 

Others of Anton ? Tell me, ye your- 
selves, 170 

Hold ye this Arthur for King Uther's 
son V 

And Ulfius and Brastias answer'd, 

'Ay.' 
Then Bedivere, the first of all his 

knights 
Knighted by Arthur at his crowning, 

spake — 
For bold in heart and act and word 

was he, 
Whenever slander breathed against 

the King — 

1 Sir, there be many rumors on this 

head ; 
For there be those who hate him in 

their hearts, 
Call him baseborn, and since his ways 

are sweet, 
And theirs are bestial, hold him less 

than man ; i3o 



392 



IDYLLS OF THE KING 



And there be those who deem him 

more than man, 
And dream he dropt from heaven. 

But my belief 
In all this matter — so ye care to 

learn — 
Sir, for ye know that in King Uther's 

time 
The prince and warrior Gorloi's, he 

that held 
Tintagil castle by the Cornish sea, 
Was wedded with a winsome wife, 

Ygerne ; 
And daughters had she borne him, — 

one whereof, 
Lot's wife, the Queen of Orkney, 

Bellicent, 
Hath ever like a loyal sister cleaved 
To Arthur, — but a son she had not 

borne. 191 

And Uther cast upon her eyes of love ; 
But she, a stainless wife to Gorloi's, 
So loathed the bright dishonor of his 

love 
That Gorloi's. and King Uther went to 

war, 
And overthrown was Gorloi's and slain. 
Then Uther in his wrath and heat be- 
sieged 
Ygerne within Tintagil, where her 

men, 
Seeing the mighty swarm about their 

walls, 
Left her and fled, and Uther enter'd 

in, 200 

And there was none to call to but him- 
self. 
So, compass'd by the power of the 

king, 
Enforced she was to wed him in her 

tears, 
And with a shameful swiftness ; after- 
ward, 
Not many moons, King Uther died 

himself, 
Moaning and wailing for an heir to 

rule 
After him, lest the realm should go to 

wrack. 
And that same night, the night of the 

new year, 
By reason of the bitterness and grief 
That vext his mother, all before his 

time 210 

Was Arthur born, and all as soon as 

born 



Deliver'd at a secret postern-gate 
To Merlin, to be holden far apart 
Until his hour should come, because 

the lords 
Of that fierce day were as the lords of 

this, 
Wild beasts, and surely would have 

torn the child 
Piecemeal among them, had they 

known ; for each 
But sought to rule for his own self 

and hand, 
And many hated Uther for the sake 
Of Gorloi's. Wherefore Merlin took 

the child, 220 

And gave him to Sir Anton, an old 

knight 
And ancient friend of Uther ; and his 

wife 
Nursed the young prince, and rear'd 

him with her own ; 
And no man knew. And ever since 

the lords 
Have f oughten like wild beasts among 

themselves, 
So that the realm has gone to wrack ; 

but now, 
This year, when Merlin — for his hour 

had come — 
Brought Arthur forth, and set him in 

the hall, 
Proclaiming, "Here is Uther's heir, 

your king," 
A hundred voices cried : ' ' Away with 

him ! 230 

No king of ours ! a son of Gorloi's he, 
Or else the child of Anton, and no 

king, 
Or else baseborn.' , Yet Merlin thro' 

his craft, 
And while the people clamor'd for a 

king, 
Had Arthur crown' d ; but after, the 

great lords 
Banded, and so brake out in open war.' 

Then while the king debated with 
himself 

If Arthur were the child of shameful- 
ness. 

Or born the son of Gorloi's after 
death, 

Or Uther's son and born before his 
time, 240 

Or whether there were truth in any- 
thing 






THE COMING OF ARTHUR 



393 



Said by these three, there came to 

Cameliard, 
With Gawain and young Modred, her 

two sons, 
Lot's wife, the Queen of Orkney, Belli- 

cent; 
Whom as he could, not as he would, 

the king 
Made feast for, saying, as they sat at 

meat: 
1 A doubtful throne is ice on summer 

seas. 
Ye come from Arthur's court. Victor 

his men 
Report him ! Yea, but ye — think ye 

this king — 
So many those that hate him, and so 

strong, 250 

So few his knights, however brave 

they be — 
Hath body enow to hold his foemen 

down?' 

'O King,' she cried, 'and I will tell 

thee: few, 
Few, but all brave, all of one mind 

with him ; 
For I was near him when the savage 

yells 
Of Uther's peerage died, and Arthur 

sat 
Crowned on the dai's, and his warriors 

cried, 
"Be thou the king, and we will work 

thy will 
Who love thee." Then the King in 

low deep tones, 
And simple words of great authority, 
Bound them by so strait vows to his 

own self 261 

That when they rose, knighted from 

kneeling, some 
Were pale as at the passing of a ghost, 
Some flush'd, and others dazed, as one 

who wakes 
Half -blinded at the coming of a light. 

'But when he spake, and cheer'd his 
Table Round 

With large, divine, and comfortable 
words, 

Beyond my tongue to tell thee — I be- 
held 

From eye to eye thro' all their Order 
flash 

A momentary likeness of the King ; 270 



And ere it left their faces, thro' the 

cross 
And those around it and the Crucified, 
Down from the casement over Arthur, 

smote 
Flame-color, vert, and azure, in three 

rays, 
One falling upon each of three fair 

queens 
Who stood in silence near his throne, 

the friends 
Of Arthur, gazing on him, tall, with 

bright 
Sweet faces, who will help him at his 

need. 

'And there I saw mage Merlin, 

whose vast wit 
And hundred winters are but as the 

hands 280 

Of loyal vassals toiling for their liege. 

'And near him stood the Lady of 

the Lake, 
Who knows a subtler magic than his 

own — 
Clothed in white samite, mystic, won- 
derful. 
She gave the King his huge cross- 

hilted sword, 
Whereby to drive the heathen out. A 

mist 
Of incense curl'd about her, and her 

face 
Wellnigh was hidden in the minster 

gloom ; 
But there was heard among the holy 

hymns 
A voice as of the waters, for she dwells 
Down in a deep — calm, whatsoever 

storms * 291 

May shake the world — and when the 

surface rolls, 
Hath power to walk the waters like 

our Lord. 

' There likewise I beheld Excalibur 
Before him at his crowning borne, the 

sword 
That rose from out the bosom of the 

lake, 
And Arthur row'd across and took it — 

rich 
With jewels, elfin Urim, on the hilt, 
Bewildering heart and eye — the blade 

so bright 



394 



IDYLLS OF THE KING 



That men are blinded by it — on one 

side, 300 

Graven in the oldest tongue of all this 

world, 
"Take ine," but turn the blade and ye 

shall see, 
And written in the speech ye speak 

yourself, 
"Cast* me away!" And sad was 

Arthur's face 
Taking it, but old Merlin counsell'd 

him, 
' ' Take thou and strike ! the time to 

cast away 
Is yet far-off." So this great brand the 

king 
Took, and by this will beat his foemen 

down!' 

Thereat Leodogran rejoiced, but 

thought 
To sift hisdoubtings to the last, and 

ask'd, 310 

Fixing full eyes of question on her 

face, 
1 The swallow and the swift are near 

akin, 
But thou art closer to this noble 

prince, 
Being his own dear sister ; ' and she 

said, 
1 Daughter of Gorloi's and Ygerne am 

' And therefore Arthur's sister ? ' ask'd 

the king. 
She answer'd, ' These be secret things/ 

and sign'd 
To those tw o'sons to pass, and let them 

be. 
And Gawain went, and breaking into 

song 
Sprang out, and follow'd by his flying 

hair 320 

Ran like a colt, and leapt at all he 

saw : 
But Modred laid his ear beside the 

doors, 
And there half -heard — the same that 

afterward 
Struck for the throne, and striking 

found his doom. 

And then the Queen made answer : 
• What know I ? 
For dark my mother was in eyes and 
hair, 



And dark in hair and eyes am I ; and 

dark 
Was Gorloi's ; yea, and dark wasUther 

too, 
Wellnigh to blackness ; but this king 

is fair 
Beyond the race of Britons and of 

men. 33 o 

Moreover, always in my mind I hear 
A cry from out the dawning of my life, 
A mother weeping, and I hear her say, 
"O that ye had some brother, pretty 

one, 
To guard thee on the rough ways of 

the world."' 

'Ay,' said the king, 'and hear ye 
such a cry ? 
But when did Arthur chance upon thee 
first ? ' 

' O King ! ' she cried, ' and I will tell 

thee true. 
He found me first when yet a little 

maid. 
Beaten I had been for a little fault 340 
Whereof I was not guilty ; and out I 

ran 
And flung myself down on a bank of 

heath, 
And hated this fair world and all 

therein, 
And wept, and wish'd that I were 

dead ; and he — 
I know not whether of himself he 

came, 
Or brought by Merlin, who, they say, 

can walk 
Unseen at pleasure — he was at my 

side, 
And spake sweet words, and com- 
forted my heart, 
And dried my tears, being a child 

with me. 
And many a time he came, and ever- 
more 350 
As I grew greater grew with me ; and 

sad 
At times he seem'd, and sad with him 

was I, 
Stern too at times, and then I loved 

him not, 
But sweet again, and then I loved 

him well. 
And now of late I see him less and 

less, 



THE COMING OF ARTHUR 



39: 



But those first days had golden hours 

for me, 
For then I surely thought he would 

be king. 

'But let me tell thee now another 

tale: 
For Bleys. our Merlin's master, as 

they say, 
Died but of late, and sent his cry to me, 
To hear him speak before he left his 

life. 360 



Shrunk like a fairy changeling lay 
the mage : 

And when I enter d told me that him- 
self 

And Merlin ever served about the king, 

Uther, before he died; and on the 
night 

When Uther in Tintagil past away 

Moaning and wailing for an heir* the 
two 

Left the still king, and passing forth 
to breathe. 




" A naked babe, and rode to Merlin's feet 



39 6 



IDYLLS OF THE KING 



Then from the castle gateway by the 

chasm 
Descending thro' the dismal night — a 

night 370 

In which the bounds of heaven and 

earth were lost — 
Beheld, so high upon the dreary 

deeps 
It seem'd in heaven, a ship, the shape 

thereof 
A dragon wing'd, and all from stem 

to stern 
Bright with a shining people on the 

decks, 
And gone as soon as seen. And then 

the two 
Dropt to the cove, and watch' d the 

great sea fall, 
Wave after wave, each mightier than 

the last. 
Till last, a ninth one, gathering half 

the deep 
And full of voices, slowly rose and 

plunged 380 

Roaring, and all the wave was in a 

flame ; 
And down the wave and in the flame 

was borne 
A naked babe, and rode to Merlin's 

feet, 
Who stoopt and caught the babe, and 

cried, ' ' The King ! 
Here is an heir for Uther ! " And the 

fringe 
Of that great breaker, sweeping up 

the strand, 
Lash'd at the wizard as he spake the 

word, 
And all at once all round him rose in 

fire, 
So that the child and he were clothed 

in fire. 
And presently thereafter follow' d calm, 
Free sky and stars. " And this same 

child," he said, 39 1 

"Is he who reigns; nor could I part 

in peace 
Till this were told." And saying this 

the seer 
Went thro' the strait and dreadful 

pass of death, 
Not ever to be question'd any more 
Save on the further side ; but when I 

met 
Merlin, and ask'd him if these things 

were truth — 



The shining dragon and the naked 

child 
Descending in the glory of the seas — 
He laugh'd as is his wont, and an- 

swer'd me 400 

In riddling triplets of old time, and 

said : — 

' " Rain, rain, and sun! a rainbow in the 
sky! 
A young" man will be wiser by and by; 
An old man's wit may wander ere he die. 

1 " Rain, rain, and sun! a rainbow on the 
lea! 
And truth is this to me, and that to thee ; 
And truth or clothed or naked let it be. 

'"Rain, sun, and rain! and the free 

blossom blows ; 
Sun, rain, and sun! and where is he who 

knows? 
From the great deep to the great deep he 

goes." 140 

'So Merlin riddling anger'd me; 

but thou 
Fear not to give this King thine only 

child, 
Guinevere ; so great bards of him will 

sing 
Hereafter, and dark sayings from of old 
Ranging and ringing thro' the minds 

of men, 
And echo' d by old folk beside their 

fires 
For comfort after their wage -work is 

done, 
Speak of the King ; and Merlin in our 

time 
Hath spoken also, not in jest, and 

sworn 
Tho' men may wound him that he 

will not die, 420 

But pass, again to come, and then or 

now 
Utterly smite the heathen underfoot, 
Till these and all men hail him for 

their king. ' 

She spake and King Leodogran re- 
joiced, 

But musing 'Shall I answer yea or 
nay?' 

Doubted, and drowsed, nodded and 
slept, and saw, 

Dreaming, a slope of land that ever 
grew, 



THE COMING OF ARTHUR 



397 



Field after field, up to a height, the 
peak 

Haze-hidden, and thereon a phantom 
king, 

Now looming, and now lost; and on 
the slope 430 

The sword rose, the hind fell, the herd 
was driven, 

Fire glimpsed ; and all the land from 
roof and rick, 

In drifts of smoke before a rolling 
wind, 

Stream'd to the peak, and mingled 
with the haze 

And made it thicker ; while the phan- 
tom king 

Sent out at times a voice ; and here or 
there 

Stood one who pointed toward the 
voice, the rest 

Slew on and burnt, crying, ' No king 
of ours, 

No son of Uther, and no king of ours ; ' 

Till with a wink his dream was 
changed, the haze 440 

Descended, and the solid earth be- 
came 

As nothing, but the King stood out in 
heaven, 

Crown'd. And Leodogran awoke, and 
sent 

Ulfius, and Brastias, and Bedivere, 

Back to the court of Arthur answer- 
ing yea. 

Then Arthur charged his warrior 

whom he loved 
And honor' d most, Sir Lancelot, to 

ride forth 
And bring the Queen, and watch' d 

him from the gates ; 
And Lancelot past away among the 

flowers — 
For then was latter April — and re- 

turn'd 450 

Among the flowers, in May, with 

Guinevere. 
To whom arrived, by Dubric the high 

saint, 
Chief of the church in Britain, and 

before 
The stateliest of her altar-shrines, the 

King 
That morn was married, while in 

stainless white, 
The fair beginners of a nobler time, 



And glorying in their vows and him, 

his knights 
Stood round him, and rejoicing in his 

joy- 

Far shone the fields of May thro' open 

door, 
The sacred altar blossom'd white with 

May, 4 6o 

The sun of May descended on their 

King, 
They gazed on all earth's beauty in 

their Queen, 
Roll'd incense, and there past along 

the hymns 
A voice as of the waters, while the two 
Sware at the shrine of Christ a death- 
less love. 
And Arthur said, 'Behold, thy doom 

is mine. 
Let chance what will, I love thee to 

the death ! ' 
To whom the Queen replied with 

drooping eyes, 
' King and my lord, I love thee to the 

death ! ' 
And holy Dubric spread his hands 

and spake : 47 o 

'Reign ye, and live and love, and 

make the world 
Other, and may thy Queen be one 

with thee, 
And all this Order of thy Table Round 
Fulfil the boundless purpose of their 

King ! ' 

So Dubric said ; but when they left 
the shrine 

Great lords from Rome before the 
portal stood, 

In scornful stillness gazing as they 
past ; 

Then while they paced a city all on 
fire 

With sun and cloth of gold, the trum- 
pets blew, 

And Arthur's knighthood sang before 
the King : — 480 

* Blow trumpet, for the world is white 

with May ! 
Blow trumpet,' the long night hath roll'd 

away ! 
Blow thro' the living world— "Let the 

King reign! " 

'Shall Rome or Heathen rule in Arthur's 
realm ? 



39* 



IDYLLS OF THE KING 



Flash brand and lance, fall battle-axe upon 

helm, 
Fall battle-axe, and flash brand ! Let the 

King reign ! 

' Strike for the King and live ! his knights 

have heard 
That God hath told the King a secret 

word. 
Fall battle-axe, and flash brand! Let the 

King reign! 

' Blow trumpet ! he will lift us from the 
dust. 490 

Blow trumpet ! live the strength, and die the 
lust! 

Clang battle-axe, and clash brand ! Let the 
King reign! 

1 Strike for the King and die ! and if thou 
diest, 

The King is king, and ever wills the high- 
est. 

Clang battle-axe, and clash brand ! Let the 
King reign ! 

' Blow, for our Sun is mightv in his 

May! 
Blow, for our Sun is mightier day by 

day! 
Clang battle-axe, and clash brand ! Let the 

King reign ! 

1 The King will follow Christ, and we the 

King, 
In whom high God hath breathed a secret 

thing. 500 

Fall battle-axe, and clash brand! Let the 

King reign!' 



So sang the knighthood, moving to 

their hall. 
There at the banquet those great lords 

from Rome, 
The slowly-fading mistress of the 

world, 
Strode in and claim' d their tribute as 

of yore. 
But Arthur spake : ' Behold, for these 

have sworn 
To wage my wars, and worship me 

their King ; 
The old order changeth, yielding place 

to new, 
And we that fight for our fair father 

Christ, 
Seeing that ye be grown too weak and 

old 510 

To drive the heathen from your Roman 

wall, 
No tribute will we pay/ So those 

great lords 
Drew back in wrath, and Arthur strove 

with Rome. 

And Arthur and his knighthood for 

a space 
Were all one will, and thro' that 

strength the King 
Drew in the petty princedoms under 

him, 
Fought, and in twelve great battles 

overcame 
The heathen hordes, and made a realm 

and reign'd. 



THE ROUND TABLE 



GARETH AND LYNETTE 
THE MARRIAGE OF GERAINT 
GERAINT AND ENID 
BALIN AND BALAN 
MERLIN AND VIVIEN 



LANCELOT AND ELAINE 
THE HOLY GRAIL 
PELLEAS AND ETTARRE 
THE LAST TOURNAMENT 
GUINEVERE 



GARETH AND LYNETTE 

The last tall son of Lot- and Bellicent, 
And tallest, Gareth, in a showerful 

spring 
Stared at the spate. A slender-shafted 

pine 
Lost footing, fell, and so was whirl'd 

away. 
* How he went down/ said Gareth, ' as 

a false knight 



Or evil king before my lance, if 
lance 

Were mine to use — O senseless cata- 
ract, 

Bearing all down in thy precipitancy — 

And yet thou art but swollen with cold 
snows 

And mine is living blood. Thou dost 
His will, 10 

The Maker's, and not knowest, and I 
that know, 



GARETH AND LYNETTE 



399 



Have strength and wit, in my good 

mother's hall 
Linger with vacillating obedience, 
Prison'd, and kept and coax'd and 

whistled to — 
Since the good mother holds me still 

a child ! 
Good mother is bad mother unto 

me ! 
A worse were better; yet no worse 

would I. 
Heaven yield her for it, but in me put 

force 
To weary her ears with one continuous 

prayer, 
Until she let me fly discaged to 

sweep 
In ever-highering eagle-circles up 21 
To the great Sun of Glory, and thence 

swoop 
Down upon all things base, and dash 

them dead, 
A knight of Arthur, working out his 

will, 
To cleanse the world. Why, Gawain, 

when he came 
With Modred hither in the summer- 
time, 
Ask'd me to tilt with him, the proven 

knight. 
Modred for want of worthier was the 

judge. 
Then I so shook him in the saddle, he 

said, 
' ' Thou hast half prevail' d against me, " 

said so — he — 30 

Tho' Modred biting his thin lips was 

mute, 
For he is al way sullen — what care I ? ' 

And Gareth went, and hovering 

round her chair 
Ask'd, ' Mother, tho' ye count me still 

the child, 
Sweet mother, do ye love the child ? ' 

She laugh' d, 
1 Thou art but a wild-goose to question 

it.' 
'.Then, mother, an ye love the child,' 

he said, 
' Being a goose and rather tame than 

wild, 
Hear the child's story. ' ' Yea, my well- 
beloved, 
An 't were but of the goose and golden 

eggs.' 40 



And Gareth answer'd her with kin- 
dling eyes : 
1 Nay, nay, good mother, but this egg 

of mine 
Was finer gold than any goose can 

lay; 
For this an eagle, a royal eagle, laid 
Almost beyond eye-reach, on such a 

palm 
As glitters gilded «in thy Book of 

Hours. 
And there was ever haunting round 

the palm 
A lusty youth, but poor, who often 

saw 
The splendor sparkling from aloft, 

and thought, 
' ' An I could climb and lay my hand 

upon it, 50 

Then were I wealthier than a leash of 

kings/' 
But ever when he reach'd a hand to 

climb, 
One that had loved him from his child- 
hood caught 
And stay'd him, " Climb not lest thou 

break thy neck, 
I charge thee by my love," and so the 

boy, 
Sweet mother, neither clomb nor brake 

his neck, 
But brake his very heart in pining for 

it, 
And past away/ 

To whom the mother said, 
' True love, sweet son, had risk'd him- 
self and climb'd, 
And handed down the golden treasure 
to him/ 60 

And Gareth answer'd her with kin- 
dling eyes : 
' Gold ? said I gold ? — ay then, why 

he, or she, 
Or whosoe'er it was, or half the world 
Had ventured — had the thing 1 spake 

of been 
Mere gold — but this was all of that 

true steel 
Whereof they forged the brand Exeali- 

bur. 
And lightnings play'd about it in the 

storm, 
And all the little fowl were Hurried at 

it, 



400 



IDYLLS OF THE KING 



And there were cries and clashings in 

the nest, 
That sent him from his senses. Let 

me go.' 70 

Then Bellicent bemoan'd herself and 

said : 
* Hast thou no pity upon my loneli- 
ness? 
Lo, where thy father Lot beside the 

hearth 
Lies like a log, and all but smoulder'd 

out! 
For ever since when traitor to the King 
He fought against him in the barons' 

war, 
And Arthur gave him back his terri- 
tory, 
His age hath slowly droopt, and now 

lies there 
A yet-warm corpse, and yet unburi- 
able, 
No more ; nor sees, nor hears, nor 

speaks, nor knows. 80 

And both thy brethren are in Arthur's 

hall, 
Albeit neither loved with that full 

love 
I feel for thee, nor worthy such a love. 
Stay therefore thou ; red berries charm 

the bird, 
And thee, mine innocent, the jousts, 

the wars, 
Who never knewest finger-ache, nor 

pang 
Of wrench' d or broken limb — an often 

chance 
In those brain-stunning shocks, and 

tourney-falls, 
Frights to my heart. But stay ; follow 

the deer 
By these tall firs and our fast-falling 

burns ; 90 

So make thy manhood mightier day 

by day. 
Sweet is the chase; and I will seek 

thee out 
Some comfortable bride and fair, to 

grace 
Thy climbing life, and cherish my 

prone year, 
Till falling into Lot's forgetfulness 
I know not thee, myself, nor anything. 
Stay, my best son ! ye are yet more 

boy than man.' 



Then Gareth : ' An ye hold me yet 

for child, 
Hear yet once more the story of the 

child. 
For, mother, there was once a king, 

like ours. 100 

The prince his heir, when tall and 

marriageable, 
Ask'd for a bride ; and thereupon the 

king 
Set two before him. One was fair, 

strong, arm'd — 
But to be won by force — and many 

men 
Desired her ; one, good lack, no man 

desired. 
And these were the conditions of the 

king : 
That save he won the first by force, 

he needs 
Must wed that other, whom no man 

desired, 
A red-faced bride who knew herself so 

vile 
That evermore she long'd to hide her- 
self, no 
Nor fronted man or woman, eye to 

eye — 
Yea — some she cleaved to, but they 

died of her. 
And one — they call'd her Fame ; and 

one — O mother, 
How can ye keep me tether'd to you ? 

— Shame. 
Man am I grown, a man's work must 

I do. 
Follow the deer? follow the Christ, 

the King, 
Live pure, speak true, right wrong, 

follow the King — 
Else, wherefore born ? ' 

To whom the mother said : 
1 Sweet son, for there be many who 

deem him not, 
Or will not deem him, wholly proven 

king — 120 

Albeit in mine own heart I knew him 

King 
When I was frequent with him in my 

youth, 
And heard him kingly speak, and 

doubted him 
No more than he, himself ; but felt 

him mine, 



GARETH AND LYNETTE 



401 



Of closest kin to me. Yet — wilt thou 

leave 
Thine easeful biding here, and risk 

thine all, 
Life, limbs, for one that is not proven 

king ? 
Stay, till the cloud that settles round 

his birth 
Hath lifted but a little. Stay, sweet 

son.' 

And Gareth answer'd quickly I ' Not 

an hour, 130 

So that ye yield me — I will walk thro' 

fire, 
Mother, to gain it — your full leave to 

go. 
Not proven, who swept the dust of 

ruin'd Rome 
From off the threshold of the realm, 

and crush' d 
The idolaters, and made the people 

free? 
Who should be king save him who 

makes us free ? ' 

So when the Queen, who long had 

sought in vain 
To break him from the intent to which 

he grew, 
Found her son's will unwaveringly 

one, 
She answer'd craftily : ' Will ye walk 

thro' fire ? 140 

Who walks thro' fire will hardly heed 

the smoke. 
Ay, go then, an ye must; ODly one 

proof, 
Before thou ask the King to make 

thee knight, 
Of thine obedience and thy love to me, 
Thy mother, — I demand.' 

And Gareth cried : 
' A hard one, or a hundred, so I go. 
Nay — quick ! the proof to prove me 
to the quick ! ' 

But slowly spake the mother looking 
at him : 

'Prince, thou shalt go disguised to 
Arthur's hall, 

And hire thyself to serve for meats 
and drinks 150 

Among the scullions and the kitchen- 
knaves, 



And those that hand the dish across 

the bar. 
Nor shalt thou tell thy name to any 

one. 
And thou shalt serve a twelvemonth 

and a day.' 

For so the Queen believed that when 
her son 

Beheld his only way to glory lead 

Low down thro' villain kitchen vassal- 
age, 

Her own true Gareth was too princely- 
proud 

To pass thereby; so should he rest 
with her, 

Closed in her castle from the sound of 
arms. 160 

Silent awhile was Gareth, then re- 
plied : 
1 The thrall in person may be free in 

soul, 
And I shall see the jousts. Thy son 

am I, 
And, since thou art my mother, must 

obey. 
I therefore yield me freely to thy will - r 
For hence will I, disguised, and hire 

myself 
To serve with scullions and with 

kitchen-knaves ; 
Nor tell my name to any — no, not the 

King.' 

Gareth awhile linger'd. The mo- 
ther's eye 
Full of the wistful fear that he would 

gO, 170 

And turning toward him wheresoe'er 

he turn'd, 
Perplext his outward purpose, till an 

hour 
When, waken'd by the wind which 

with full voice 
Swept bellowing thro' the darkness on 

to dawn, 
He rose, and out of slumber calling 

two 
That still had tended on him from his 

birth, 
Before the wakeful mother heard him, 

went. 

The three were clad like tillers of 
the soil. 



402 



IDYLLS OF THE KING 



Southward they set their faces. The 

birds made 
Melody on branch and melody in mid 

air. iSo 

The damp hill-slopes were quicken'd 

into green, 
And the live green had kindled into 

flowers, 
For it was past the time of Easter-day. 

So, when their feet were planted on 
the plain 

That broaden'd toward the base of 
Camelot, 

Far off they saw the silver-misty 
morn 

Rolling her smoke about the royal 
mount, 

That rose between the forest and the 
field. 

At times the summit of the high city 
flash' d ; 

At times the spires and turrets half- 
way down 190 

Prick' d thro' the mist ; at times the 
great gate shone 

Only, that open'd on the field below ; 

Anon, the whole fair city had disap- 
pear^. 

Then those who went with Gareth 

were amazed, 
One crying, 'Let us go no further, 

lord ; 
Here is a city of enchanters, built 
By fairy kings/ The second echo'd 

him, 
1 Lord, we have heard from our wise 

man at home 
To northward, that this king is not 

the King, 
But only changeling out of Fairyland, 
Who drave the heathen hence by sor- 
cery 201 
And Merlm's glamour.' Then the first 

again, 
1 Lord, there is no such city anywhere, 
But all a vision.' 

Gareth answer' d them 
With laughter, swearing he had gla- 
mour enow 
In his own blood, his princedom, 

youth, and hopes, 
To plunge old Merlin in the Arabian 
sea; 



So push'd them all unwilling toward 

the gate. 
And there was no gate like it under 

heaven. 
For barefoot on the keystone, which 

was lined 210 

And rippled like an ever-fleeting wave, 
The Lady of the Lake stood ; all her 

dress 
Wept from her sides as water flowing 

away ; 
But like the cross her great and goodly 

arms 
Stretch'd under all the cornice and up- 
held. 
And drops of water fell from either 

hand; 
And down from one a sword was 

hung, from one 
A censer, either worn with wind and 

storm ; 
And o'er her breast floated the sacred 

fish; 
And in the space to left of her, and 

right, 220 

Were Arthur's wars in weird devices 

done, 
New things and old co-twisted, as if 

Time 
Were nothing, so inveterately that 

men 
Were giddy gazing there ; and over 

all 
High on the top were those three 

queens, the friends 
Of Arthur, who should help him at 

his need. 

Then those with Gareth for so long 

a space 
Stared at the figures that at last it 

seem'd 
The dragon-boughts and elvish eni- 

blemings 
Began to move, seethe, twine, and 

curl. They call'd 230 

To Gareth, 'Lord, the gateway is 

alive/ 

And Gareth likewise on them fixt 

his eyes 
So long that even to him they seem'd 

to move. 
Out of the city a blast of music peal'd. 
Back from the gate started the three, 

to whom 



GARETH AND LYNETTE 



403 



From out thereunder came an ancient 

man, 
Long-bearded, saying, 'Who be ye, 

my sons ? ' 

Then Gareth : ' We be tillers of the 

soil, 
Who leaving share in furrow come to 

see 
The glories of our King ; but these, 

my men, — 240 

Your city moved so weirdly in the 

mist — 
Doubt if the King be king at all, or 

come 
From Fairyland ; and whether this be 

built 
By magic, and by fairy kings and 

queens ; 
Or whether there be any city at all, 
Or all a vision ; and this music now 
Hath scared them both, but tell thou 

these the truth.' 

Then that old Seer made answer, 

playing on him 
And saying : ' Son, I have seen the 

good ship sail 
Keel upward, and mast downward, 

in the heavens, 250 

And solid turrets topsy-turvy in air ; 
And here is truth, but an it please 

thee not, 
Take thou the truth as thou hast told 

it me. 
For truly, as thou sayest, a fairy king 
And fairy queens have built the city, 

son; 
They came from out a sacred moun- 
tain-cleft 
Toward the sunrise, each with harp in 

hand, 
And built it to the music of their 

harps. 
And, as thou sayest, it is enchanted, 

son, 
For there is nothing in it as it seems 
Saving the King ; tho' some there be 

that hold B 261 

The King a shadow, and the city real. 
Yet take thou heed of him, for, so 

thou pass 
Beneath this archway, then wilt thou 

become 
A thrall to his enchantments, for the 

King 



Will bind thee by such vows as is a 

shame 
A man should not be bound by, yet 

the which 
No man can keep ; but, so thou dread 

to swear, 
Pass not beneath this gateway, but 

abide 
Without, among the cattle of the 

field. 27 o 

For an ye heard a music, like enow 
They are building still, seeing the city 

is built 
To music, therefore never built at 

all, 
And therefore built for ever.' 

Gareth spake 
Anger'd: 'Old master, reverence 

thine own beard 
That looks as white as utter truth, 

and seems 
Wellnigh as long as thou art statured 

tall ! 
Why mockest thou the stranger that 

hath been 
To thee fair-spoken ? ' 

But the Seer replied : 
'Know ye not then the Riddling of 

the Bards : 280 

' ' Confusion, and illusion, and relation, 
Elusion, and occasion, and evasion " ? 
I mock thee not but as thou mockest 

me, 
And all that see thee, for thou art not 

who 
Thou seemest, but I know thee who 

thou art. 
And now thou goest up to mock the 

King, 
Who cannot brook the shadow of any 

lie/ 

Unmockingly the mocker ending 
here 

Turn'd to the right, and past along 
the plain ; 

Whom Gareth looking after said : 
'My men, 390 

Our one white lie sits like a little ghost 

Here on the threshold of our enter- 
prise. 

Let love be blamed for it, not she, 
nor I. 

Well, we will make amends. ' 



4°4 



IDYLLS OF THE KING 



With all good cheer 
He spake and laugh' d, then enter'd 

with his twain 
Camelot, a city of shadowy palaces 
And stately, rich in emblem and the 

work 
Of ancient kings who did their days 

in stone ; 
Which Merlin's hand, the Mage at 

Arthur's court, 
Knowing all arts, had touch'd, and 

everywhere, 300 

At Arthur's ordinance, tipt with les- 
sening peak 
And pinnacle, and had made it spire 

to heaven. 
And ever and anon a knight would 



Outward, or inward to the hall ; his 

arms 
Clash'd, and the sound was good to 

Gareth's ear. 
And out of bower and casement shyly 

glanced 
Eyes of pure women, wholesome stars 

of love ; 
And all about a healthful people stept 
As in the presence of a gracious king. 

Then into hall Gareth ascending 

heard 310 

A voice, the voice of Arthur, and be- 
held 
Far over heads in that long-vaulted 

hall 
The splendor of the presence of the 

King 
Throned, and delivering doom — and 

look'd no more — 
But felt his young heart hammering 

in his ears, 
And thought, ' For this half-shadow 

of a lie 
The truthful King will doom me 

when I speak.' 
Yet pressing on, tho' all in fear to find 
Sir Gawain or Sir Modred, saw nor 

one 
Nor other, but in all the listening 

eyes 320 

Of those tall knights that ranged 

about the throne 
Clear honor shining like the dewy star 
Of dawn, and faith in their great 

King, with pure 
Affection, and the light of victory, 



And glory gain'd, and evermore to 
gain. 

Then came a widow crying to the 

King : 
' A boon, Sir King ! Thy father, 

Uther, reft 
From my dead lord a field with vio- 
lence ; 
For howsoe'er at first he proffer'd 

gold, 
Yet, for the field was pleasant in our 

eyes, 330 

We yielded not ; and then he reft us 

of it 
Perforce and left us neither gold nor 

field.' 

Said Arthur, ' Whether would ye ? 
gold or field ? ' 

To whom the woman weeping, ' Nay, 
my lord, 

The field was pleasant in my hus- 
band's eye/ 

And Arthur : ' Have thy pleasant 

field again, 
And thrice the gold for Uther' s use 

thereof, 
According to the years. No boon is 

here, 
But justice, so thy say be proven 

true. 
Accursed, who from the wrongs his 

father did 340 

Would shape himself a right ! ' 

And while she past, 
Came yet another widow crying to 

him : 
' A boon, Sir King ! Thine enemy, 

King, am I. 
With thine own hand thou slewest 

my dear lord, 
A knight of Uther in the barons' 

war, 
When Lot and many another rose and 

fought 
Against thee, saying thou wert basely 

born. 
I held with these, and loathe to ask 

thee aught. 
Yet lo ! my husband's brother had my 

. son 
Thrall'd in his castle, and hath starved 

him dead, 350 



GARETH AND LYNETTE 



4oS 



And standeth seized of that inherit- 
ance 

Which thou that slewest the sire hast 
left the son. 

So, tho' I scarce can ask it thee for 
hate, 

Grant me some knight to do the battle 
for me, 

Kill the foul thief, and wreak me for 
my son.' 

Then strode a good knight forward, 
crying to him, 

4 A boon, Sir King ! I am her kins- 
man, I. 

Give me to right her wrong, and slay 
the man.' 

Then came Sir Kay, the seneschal. 

and cried, 
' A boon, Sir King ! even that thou 

grant her none, 360 

This railer, that hath mock'd thee in 

full hall — 
None ; or the wholesome boon of gyve 

and gag/ 

But Arthur : ' We sit King, to help 

the wrong' d 
Thro' all our realm. The woman 

loves her lord. 
Peace to thee, woman, with thy loves 

and hates ! 
The kings of old had doom'd thee to 

the flames ; 
Aurelius Emrys would have scourged 

thee dead, 
And Uther slit thy tongue; but get 

thee hence — 
Lest that rough humor of the kings of 

old 
Return upon me ! Thou that art her 

kin, 370 

Go likewise ; lay him low and slay 

him not, 
But bring him here, that I may judge 

the right, 
According to the justice of the King. 
Then, be he guilty, by that deathless 

King 
Who lived and died for men, the man 

shall die.' 

Then came in hall the messenger of 
Mark, 
A name of evil savor in the land, 



The Cornish king. In either hand he 

bore 
What dazzled all, and shone far-off as 

shines 
A field of charlock in the sudden 

sun 380 

Between two showers, a cloth of 

palest gold, 
Which down he laid before the throne, 

and knelt, 
Delivering that his lord, the vassal 

king, 
Was even upon his way to Camelot ; 
For having heard that Arthur of his 

grace 
Had made his goodly cousin Tristram 

knight, 
And, for himself was of the greater 

state, 
Being a king, he trusted his liege- 
lord 
Would yield him this large honor all 

the more ; 
So pray'd him well to accept this cloth 

of gold, 390 

In token of true heart and fealty. 

Then Arthur cried to rend the cloth, 

to rend 
In pieces, and so cast it on the hearth. 
An oak-tree smoulder'd there. ' The 

goodly knight ! 
What ! shall the shield of Mark stand 

among these ? ' 
For, midway down the side of that 

long hall, 
A stately pile, — whereof along the 

front, 
Some blazon'd, some but carven, and 

some blank, 
There ran a treble range of stony- 
shields, — 
Rose, and high-arching overbrow'd the 

hearth. 400 

And under every shield a knight was 

named. 
For this was Arthur's custom in his 

hall: 
When some good knight had done one 

noble deed, 
His arms were carven only; but if 

twain, 
His arms were blazon'd also ; but if 

none, 
The shield was blank and bare, with 

out a sii^n 



406 



IDYLLS OF THE KING 



Saving the name beneath. And 

Gareth saw 
The shield of Gawain blazon'd rich and 

bright, 
And Modred's blank as death; and 

Arthur cried 
To rend the cloth and cast it on the 

hearth. 410 

' More like are we to reave him of 
his crown 

Than make him knight because men 
call him king. 

The kings we found, ye know we 
stay'd their hands 

From war among themselves, but left 
them kings ; 

Of whom were any bounteous, merci- 
ful, 

Truth-speaking, brave, good livers, 
them we enroll'd 

Among us, and they sit within our hall. 

But Mark hath tarnish' d the great 
name of king, 

As Mark would sully the low state of 
churl ; 

And, seeing he hath sent us cloth of 
gold, 420 

Return, and meet, and hold him from 
our eyes, 

Lest we should lap him up in cloth of 
lead, 

Silenced for ever — craven — a man of 
plots, 

Craft, poisonous counsels, wayside 
ambushings — 

No fault of thine ; let Kay the senes- 
chal 

Look to thy wants, and send thee satis- 
fied- 
Accursed, who strikes nor lets the 
hand be seen ! ' 

And many another suppliant crying 

came 
With noise of ravage wrought by 

beast and man, 
And evermore a knight would ride 

away. 43 o 

Last, Gareth leaning both hands 

heavily 
Down on the shoulders of the twain, 

his men, 
Approach' d between them toward the 

King, and ask'd, 



'A boon, Sir King,' — his voice was 
all ashamed, — 

' For see ye not how weak and hunger- 
worn 

I seem —leaning on these? grant me 
to serve 

For meat and drink among thy kitchen- 
knaves 

A twelvemonth and a day, nor seek 
my name. 

Hereafter I will fight.' 

To him the King : 
1 A goodly youth and worth a good- 
lier boon ! 440 
But so thou wilt no goodlier, then must 

Kay, 
The master of the meats and drinks, be 
thine. ' 

He rose and past ; then Kay, a man 

of mien 
Wan- sallow as the plant that feels 

itself 
Eoot-bitten by white lichen : 

' Lo ye now ! 
This fellow hath broken from some 

abbey, where, 
God wot, he had not beef and brewis 

enow, 
However that might chance ! but an 

he work, 
Like any pigeon will I cram his 

crop, 
And sleeker shall he shine than any 

hog.' 450 

Then Lancelot standing near : ' Sir 

Seneschal, 
Sleuth-hound thou knowest, and gray, 

and all the hounds ; 
A horse thou knowest, a man thou 

dost not know. 
Broad brows and fair, a fluent hair and 

fine, 
High nose, a nostril large and fine, and 

hands 
Large, fair, and fine ! — Some young 

lad's mystery — 
But, or from sheepcot or king's hall, 

the boy 
Is noble-natured. Treat him with all 

grace, 
Lest he should come to shame thy 

judging of him.' 



GARETH AND LYNETTE 



407 



!• 

I 

I 
I 



Then Kay : ' What murmurest thou 
of mystery ? 460 

Think ye this fellow will poison the 
King's dish ? 

Nay, for he spake too fool-like — mys- 
tery ! 

Tut, an the lad were noble, he had 
ask'd 

For horse and armor. Fair and fine, 
forsooth ! 

Sir Fine-face, Sir Fair-hands ? but see 
thou to it 

That thine own fineness, Lancelot, 
some fine day 

Undo thee not — and leave my man to 
me.' 

So Gareth all for glory underwent 

The sooty yoke of kitchen-vassalage, 

Ate with young lads his portion by the 
door, 470 

And couch' d at night with grimy 
kitchen-knaves. 

And Lancelot ever spake him plea- 
santly, 

But Kay the seneschal, who loved him 
not, 

Would hustle and harry him, and 
labor him 

Beyond his comrade of the hearth, 
and set 

To turn the broach, draw water, or 
hew wood, 

Or grosser tasks; and Gareth bow'd 
himself 

With all obedience to the King, and 
wrought 

All kind of service with a noble ease 

That graced the lowliest act in doing 
it. „ 480 

And when the thralls had talk among 
themselves, 

And one would praise the love that 
linkt the King 

And Lancelot — how the King had 
saved his life 

In battle twice, and Lancelot once the 
King's — 

For Lancelot was first in the tourna- 
ment, 

But Arthur mightiest on the battle- 
field— 

Gareth was glad. Or if some other 
told 

How once the wandering forester at 
dawn, 



Far over the blue tarns and hazy seas, 
On Caer-Eryri's highest found the 

King, 490 

A naked babe, of whom the Prophet 

spake, 
1 He passes to the Isle Avilion, 
He passes and is heal'd and cannot 

die' — 
Gareth was glad. But if their talk 

were foul, 
Then would he whistle rapid as any 

lark, 
Or carol some old roundelay, and so 

loud 
That first they mock'd, but, after, 

reverenced him. 
Or Gareth, telling some prodigious 

tale 
Of knights who sliced a red life-bub- 
bling way 
Thro' twenty folds of twisted dragon, 

held 500 

All in a gap-mouth'd circle his good 

mates 
Lying or sitting round him, idle hands, 
Charm'd; till Sir Kay, the seneschal, 

would come 
Blustering upon them, like a sudden 

wind 
Among dead leaves, and drive them 

all apart. 
Or when the thralls had sport among 

themselves, 
So there were any trial of mastery, 
He, by two yards in casting bar or 

stone, 
Was counted best ; and if there chanced 

a joust, 
So that Sir Kay nodded him leave to 

go, 510 

Would hurry thither, and when he 

saw the knights 
Clash like the coming and retiring 

wave, 
And the spear spring, and good horse 

reel, the boy 
Was half beyond himself for ecstasy. 

So for a month he wrought among 

the thralls ; 
But in the weeks that follow'd, the 

good Queen, 
Repentant of the word she made him 

swear, 
And saddening in her childless castle, 

sent, 



408 



IDYLLS OF THE KING 



Between the in-crescent and de-cres- 
cent moon, 

Arms for her son, and loosed him 
from his vow. 520 

This, Gareth hearing from a squire 

of Lot 
With whom he used to play at tour- 
ney once, 
When both were children, and in 

lonely haunts 
Would scratch a ragged oval on the 

sand, 
And each at either dash from either 

end — 
Shame never made girl redder than 

Gareth joy. 
He laugh'd, he sprang. 'Out of the 

smoke, at once 
I leap from Satan's foot to Peter's 

knee — 
These news be mine, none other's — 

nay, the King's — 
Descend into the city ; ' whereon he 

sought 530 

The King alone, and found, and told 

him all. 

* I have stagger' d thy strong Gawain 

in a tilt 
For pastime; yea, he said it; joust 

can I. 
Make me thy knight — in secret! let 

my name 
Be hidden, and give me the first 

quest, I spring 
Like flame from ashes.' 

Here the King's calm eye 
Fell on, and check'd, and made him 

flush, and bow 
Lowly, to kiss his hand, who answer'd 

him: 
'Son, the good mother let me know 

thee here, 
And sent her wish that I would yield 

thee thine. 540 

Make thee my knight? my knights 

are sworn to vows 
Of utter hardihood, utter gentleness, 
And, loving, utter faithfulness in 

love, 
And uttermost obedience to the King. ' 

Then Gareth, lightly springing from 
his knees: 



' My King, for hardihood I can pro- 
mise thee. 

For uttermost obedience make demand 

Of whom ye gave me to, the Senes- 
chal, 

No mellow master of the meats and 
drinks ! 

And as for love, God wot, I love not 
yet, 550 

But love I shall, God willing. ' 

And the King : 
' Make thee my knight in secret ? yea, 

but he, 
Our noblest brother, and our truest 

man, 
And one with me in all, he needs must 

know. ' 

'Let Lancelot know, my King, let 
Lancelot know, 
Thy noblest and thy truest ! ' 

And the King: 
' But wherefore would ye men should 

wonder at you ? 
Nay, rather for the sake of me, their 

King, 
And the deed's sake my knighthood 

do the deed, 
Than to be noised of.' 

Merrily Gareth ask'd : 
1 Have I not earn'd my cake in baking 

of it ? 561 

Let be my name until I make my 

name ! 
My deeds will speak ; it is but for a 

day.' 
So with a kindly hand on Gareth' s arm 
Smiled the great King, and half-un- 

willingly 
Loving his lusty youthhood yielded 

to him. 
Then, after summoning Lancelot pri- 
vily : 
' I have given him the first quest ; he 

is not proven. 
Look therefore, when he calls for this 

in hall, 
Thou get to horse and follow him far 

away. 570 

Cover the lions on thy shield, and 

see, 
Far as thou mayest, he be nor ta'en 

nor slain/ 



GARETH AND LYNETTE 



409 



Then that same day there past into 
the hall 

A damsel of high lineage, and a 
brow 

May-blossom, and a cheek of apple- 
blossom, 

Hawk-eyes ; and lightly was her slen- 
der nose 

Tip-tilted like the petal of a flower. 

She into hall past with her page and 
cried : 

'O King, for thou hast driven the 

foe without, 
See to the foe within! bridge, ford, 

beset 580 

By bandits, every one that owns a 

tower 
The lord for half a league. Why sit 

ye there ? 
Rest would I not, Sir King, an I were 

king, 
Till even the lonest hold were all as 

free 
From cursed bloodshed as thine altar- 
cloth 
From that best blood it is a sin to 

spill.' 

'Comfort thyself/ said Arthur, 'I 

nor mine 
Rest ; so my knighthood keep the 

vows they swore, 
The wastest moorland of our realm 

shall be 
Safe, damsel, as the centre of this 

hall. 
What is thy name ? thy need ? ' 



59° 



' My name ? ' she said — 
1 Lynette, my name ; noble ; my need, 

a knight 
To combat for my sister, Lyonors, 
A lady of high lineage, of great lands, 
And comely, yea, and comelier than 

myself. 
She lives in Castle Perilous. A river 
Runs in three loops about her living- 
place ; 
And o'er it are three passings, and 

three knights 
Defend the passings, brethren, and a 

fourth, 
And of that four the mightiest, holds 
her stay'd 600 

In her own castle, and so besieges her 



To break her will, and make her wed 
with him ; 

And but delays his purport till thou 
send 

To do the battle with him thy chief 
man 

Sir Lancelot, whom he trusts to over- 
throw, 

Then wed, with glory; but she will 
not wed 

Save whom she loveth, or a holy 
life. 

Now therefore have I come for Lan- 
celot.' 

Then Arthur mindful of Sir Gareth 

ask'd : 
1 Damsel, ye know this Order lives to 

crush 610 

All wrongers of the realm. But say, 

these four, 
Who be they ? What the fashion of 

the men ? ' 

'They be of foolish fashion, O Sir 

King, 
The fashion of that old knight-errantry 
Who ride abroad, and do but what 

they will ; 
Courteous or bestial from the moment, 

such 
As have nor law nor king ; and three 

of these 
Proud in their fantasy call themselves 

the Day, 
Morning- Star, and Noon- Sun, and 

Evening -Star, 
Being strong fools ; and never a whit 

more wise 620 

The fourth, who alway rideth arm'd in 

black, 
A huge man-beast of boundless sav- 
agery. 
He names himself the Night and oft- 

ener Death, 
And wears a helmet mounted with a 

skull, 
And bears a skeleton figured on his 

arms, 
To show that who may slay or scape 

the three, 
Slain by himself, shall enter endless 

night. 
And all these four be fools, but mighty 

men, 
And therefore am I come for Lancelot.' 



4io 



IDYLLS OF THE KING 



Hereat Sir Gareth call'd from where 

he rose, 630 

A head with kindling eyes above the 

throng, 
'A boon, Sir King — this qnest ! ' 

then — for he mark'd 
Kay near him groaning like a wounded 

bull — 

* Yea, King, thou knowest thy 

kitchen-knave am I, 

And mighty thro' thy meats and drinks 
am I, 

And I can topple over a hundred such. 

Thy promise, King,' and Arthur glan- 
cing at him, 

Brought down a momentary brow. 
'Rough, sudden, 

And pardonable, worthy to be 
knight — 

Go therefore/ and all hearers were 
amazed. 640 

But on the damsel's forehead shame, 
pride, wrath 
Slew the may- white. She lifted either 
arm, 

* Fie on thee, King ! I ask'd for thy 

chief knight, 
And thou hast given me but a kitchen- 
knave/ 
Then ere a man in hall could stay her, 

turn'd, 
Fled down the lane of access to the 

King, 
Took horse, descended the slope street, 

and past 
The weird white gate, and paused 

without, beside 
The field of tourney, murmuring 

1 kitchen-knave ! ' 

Now two great entries open'd from 

the hall, 650 

At one end one that gave upon a range 
Of level pavement where the King 

would pace 
At sunrise, gazing over plain and 

wood ; 
And down from this a lordly stairway 

sloped 
Till lost in blowing trees and tops of 

towers ; 
And out by this main doorway past 

the King. 
But one was counter to the hearth, and 

rose 



High that the highest-crested helm 

could ride 
Therethro' nor graze ; and by this 

entry fled 
The damsel in her wrath, and on to 

this 660 

Sir Gareth strode, and saw without 

the door 
King Arthur's gift, the worth of half 

a town, 
A war-horse of the best, and near it 

stood 
The two that out of north had follow'd 

him. 
This bare a maiden shield, a casque ; 

that held 
The horse, the spear ; whereat Sir 

Gareth loosed 
A cloak that dropt from collar-bone to 

heel, 
A cloth of roughest web, and cast it 

down, 
And from it, like a fuel-smother'd 

fire 
That lookt half-dead, brake bright, 

and flash'd as those 670 

Dull-coated things, that making slide 

apart 
Their dusk wing-cases, all beneath 

there burns 
A jewell'd harness, ere they pass and 

fly. 

So Gareth ere he parted flash'd in 

arms. 
Then as he donn'd the helm, and took 

the shield 
And mounted horse and graspt a spear, 

of grain 
Storm-strengthen'd on a windy site, 

and tipt 
With trenchant steel, around him 

slowly prest 
The people, while from out of kitchen 

came 
The thralls in throng, and seeing who 

had work'd 680 

Lustier than any, and whom they 

could but love, 
Mounted in arms, threw up their caps 

and cried, 
' God bless the King, and all his 

fellowship!' 
And on thro' lanes of shouting Gareth 

rode 
Down the slope street, and past with- 
out the gate. 



GARETH AND LYNETTE 



411 






So Gareth past with joy ; but as the 

cur 
Pluckt from the cur he fights with, ere 

his cause 
Be cooPd by fighting, follows, being 

named, 
His owner, but remembers all, and 

growls 
Remembering, so Sir Kay beside the 

door 690 

Mutter'd in scorn of Gareth whom he 

used 
To harry and hustle. 

' Bound upon a quest 
With horse and arms — the King hath 

past his time — 
My scullion knave ! Thralls, to your 

work again, 
For an your fire be low ye kindle mine ! 
Will there be dawn in West and eve 

in East ? 
Begone ! — my knave ! — belike and 

like enow 
Some old head-blow not heeded in his 

youth 
So shook his wits they wander in his 

prime — 
Crazed ! How the villain lifted up his 

voice, 700 

Nor shamed to bawl himself a kitchen- 
knave ! 
Tut, he was tame and meek enow with 

me, 
Till peacock'd up with Lancelot's 

noticing. 
Well — I will after my loud knave, 

and learn 
Whether he know me for his master 

yet. 
Out of the smoke he came, and so my 

lance 
Hold, by God's grace, he shall into the 

mire — 
Thence, if the King awaken from his 

craze, 
Into the smoke again.' 

But Lancelot said : 
' Kay, wherefore wilt thou go against 

the King, 710 

For that did never he whereon ye rail, 
But ever meekly served the King in 

thee ? 
Abide ; take counsel, for this lad is 

great 



And lusty, and knowing both of lance 

and sword.' 
'Tut, tell not me,' said Kay, 'ye are 

overfine 
To mar stout knaves with foolish 

courtesies ; ' 
Then mounted, on thro' silent faces 

rode 
Down the slope city, and out beyond 

the gate. 

But by the field of tourney lingering 

yet 
Mutter'd the damsel : ' Wherefore did 

the King 720 

Scorn me ? for, were Sir Lancelot 

lackt, at least 
He might have yielded to me one of 

those 
Who tilt for lady's love and glory here, 
Rather than — O sweet heaven ! O, fie 

upon him ! — 
His kitchen-knave.' 

To whom Sir Gareth drew — 

And there were none but few goodlier 
than he — 

Shining in arms, ' Damsel, the quest is 
mine. 

Lead, and I follow.' She thereat, as 
one 

That smells a foul-flesh'd agaric in the 
hole, 

And deems it carrion of some wood- 
land thing, 730 

Or shrew or weasel, nipt her slender 
nose 

With petulant thumb and finger, shrill- 
ing, ' Hence ! 

Avoid, thou smellest all of kitchen- 
grease. 

And look who comes behind ; ' for there 
was Kay. 

1 Knowest thou not me ? thy master ? 
I am Kay. 

We lack thee by the hearth.' 

And Gareth to him, 
' Master no more ! too well I know 

thee, ay — 
The most ungentle knight in Arthur's 

hall' 
' Have at thee then,' said Kay : they 

shock' d, and Kay 
Fell shoulder-slipt, and Gareth cried 

again, 74° 



412 



IDYLLS OF THE KING 



1 Lead, and I follow/ and fast away 
she fled. 

But after sod and shingle ceased to 
fly 

Behind her, and the heart of her good 

horse 
Was nigh to burst with violence of the 

beat, 
Perforce she stay'd, and overtaken 

spoke : 

'What doest thou, scullion, in my 
fellowship ? 

Deem' st thou that I accept thee aught 
the more 

Or love thee better, that by some de- 
vice 

Full cowardly, or by mere unhappi- 
ness, 

Thou hast overthrown and slain thy 
master — thou ! — 750 

Dish-washer and broach-turner, loon ! 
— to me 

Thou smellest all of kitchen as before.' 

'Damsel,' Sir Gareth answer'd 

gently, ' say 
Whate'er ye will, but whatsoe'er ye 

say, 
I leave not till I finish this fair 

quest, 
Or die therefore.' 

' Ay, wilt thou finish it ? 
Sweet lord, how like a noble knight he 

talks ! 
The listening rogue hath caught the 

manner of it. 
But, knave, anon thou shalt be met 

with, knave, 
And then by such a one that thou for 

all 760 

The kitchen brewis that was ever 

supt 
Shalt not once dare to look him in the 

face.' 

' I shall assay,' said Gareth with a 
smile 

That madden'd her, and away she 
flash' d again 

Down the long avenues of a bound- 
less wood ; 

And Gareth following was again be- 
knaved : 



'Sir Kitchen-knave, I have miss'd 

the only way 
Where Arthur's men are set along the 

wood ; 
The wood is nigh as full of thieves as 

leaves. 
If both be slain, I am rid of thee ; but 

yet, 770 

Sir Scullion, canst thou use that spit 

of thine ? 
Fight, an thou canst ; I have miss'd 

the only way.' 

So till the dusk that follow' d even- 
song 

Rode on the two, reviler and reviled ; 

Then after one long slope was 
mounted, saw, 

Bowl-shaped, thro' tops of many thou- 
sand pines 

A gloomy-gladed hollow slowly sink 

To westward — in the deeps whereof 
a mere, 

Round as the red eye of an eagle-owl, 

Under the half -dead sunset glared ; and 
shouts 780 

Ascended, and there brake a serving- 
man 

Flying from out of the black wood, 
and crying, 

' They have bound my lord to cast him 
in the mere. ' 

Then Gareth, 'Bound am I to right 
the wrong'd, 

But straitlier bound am I to bide with 
thee.' 

And when the damsel spake contemp- 
tuously, 

'Lead, and I follow,' Gareth cried 
again, 

' Follow, I lead ! ' so down among the 
pines 

He plunged ; and there, black-shad- 
ow'd nigh the mere, 

And mid-thigh-deep in bulrushes and 
reed, 79° 

Saw six tall men haling a seventh 
along, 

A stone about his neck to drown him 
in it. 

Three with good blows he quieted, 
but three 

Fled thro' the pines ; and Gareth loosed 
the stone 

From off his neck, then in the mere 
beside 



GARETH AND LYNETTE 



4i3 



Tumbled it ; oilily bubbled up the 

mere. 
Last, Gareth loosed his bonds and on 

free feet 
Set him, a stalwart baron, Arthur's 

friend. 

' Well that ye came, or else these 
caitiff rogues 

Had wreak' d themselves on me ; good 
cause is theirs 800 

To hate me, for my wont hath ever 
been 

To catch my thief, and then like ver- 
min here 

Drown him, and with a stone about 
his neck ; 

And under this wan water many of 
them 

Lie rotting, but at night let go the 
stone, 

And rise, and flickering in a grimly 
light 

Dance on the mere. Good now, ye 
have saved a life 

Worth somewhat as the cleanser of 
this wood. 

And fain would I reward thee worship- 
fully. 

What guerdon will ye ? ' 

Gareth sharply spake : 
4 None ! for the deed's sake have I done 
the deed, 81 1 

In uttermost obedience to the King. 
But wilt thou yield this damsel har- 
borage ? ' 

Whereat the baron saying, 'I well 

believe 
You be of Arthur's Table/ a light 

laugh 
Broke from Lynette : ' Ay, truly of a 

truth, 
And in a sort, being Arthur's kitchen- 
knave ! — 
But deem not I accept thee aught the 

more, 
Scullion, for running sharply with 

thy spit 
Down on a rout of craven foresters. 
A thresher with his flail had scatter'd 

them. 821 

Nay — for thou smellest of the kitchen 

still. 



But an this lord will yield us harbor- 
age, 
Well.' 

So she spake. A league beyond the 

wood, 
All in a full-fair manor and a rich, 
His towers, where that day a feast had 

been 
Held in high hall, and many a viand 

left, 
And many a costly cate, received the 

three. 
And there they placed a peacock in 

his pride 829 

Before the damsel, and the baron set 
Gareth beside her, but at once she rose. 

'Meseems, that here is much dis- 
courtesy, 

Setting this knave, Lord Baron, at my 
side. 

Hear me — this morn I stood in Ar- 
thur's hall, 

And pray'd the King would grant me 
Lancelot 

To fight the brotherhood of Day and 
Night — 

The last a monster unsubduable 

Of any save of him for whom I call'd — 

Suddenly bawls this frontless kitchen- 
knave, 

"The quest is mine; thy kitchen- 
knave am I, 840 

And mighty thro' thy meats and drinks 
am I." 

Then Arthur all at once gone mad 
replies, 

"Go therefore," and so gives the quest 
to him — 

Him — here — a villain fitter to stick 
swine 

Than ride abroad redressing women's 
wrong, 

Or sit beside a noble gentlewoman. ' 

Then half-ashamed and part- 
amazed, the lord 

Now look'd at one and now at other, 
left 

The damsel by the peacock in his 
pride, 

And, seating Gareth at another board, 

Sat down beside him, ate and then 
began: 851 



414 



IDYLLS OF THE KING 



'Friend, whether thou be kitchen- 
knave, or not, 

Or whether it be the maiden's fantasy, 

And whether she be mad, or else the 
King, 

Or both or neither, or thyself be 
mad, 

I ask not ; but thou strikest a strong 
stroke, 

For strong thou art and goodly there- 
withal, 

And saver of my life ; and therefore 
now, 

For here be mighty men to joust with, 
weigh 

Whether thou wilt not with thy damsel 
back 860 

To crave again Sir Lancelot of the 
King. 

Thy pardon; I but speak for thine 
avail, 

The saver of my life/ 

And Gareth said, 
'Full pardon, but I follow up the 

quest, 
Despite of Day and Night and Death 

and Hell/ 

So when, next morn, the lord whose 

life he saved 
Had, some brief space, convey'd them 

on their way 
And left them with God- speed, Sir 

Gareth spake, 
'Lead, and I follow.' Haughtily she 

replied : 

'I fly no more ; I allow thee for an 

hour. 870 

Lion and stoat have isled together, 

knave, 
In time of flood. Nay, furthermore, 

methinks 
Some ruth is mine for thee. Back wilt 

thou, fool ? 
For hard by here is one will overthrow 
And slay thee ; then will I to court 

again, 
And shame the King for only yielding 

me 
My champion from the ashes of his 

hearth/ 

To whom Sir Gareth answer'd 
courteously : 



1 Say thou thy say, and I will do my 

deed. 
Allow me for mine hour, and thou 

wilt find 880 

My fortunes all as fair as hers who lay 
Among the ashes and wedded the 

King's son/ 

Then to the shore of one of those 

long loops 
Wherethro' the serpent river coil'd, 

they came. 
Rough-thicketed were the banks and 

steep ; the stream 
Full, narrow ; this a bridge of single 

arc 
Took at a leap ; and on the further 

side 
Arose a silk pavilion, gay with gold 
In streaks and rays, and all Lent-lily 

in hue, 
Save that the dome was purple, and 

above, 890 

Crimson, a slender banneret fluttering. 
And therebefore the lawless warrior 

paced 
Unarm'd, and calling, ' Damsel, is this 

he, 
The champion thou hast brought from 

Arthur's hall, 
For whom we let thee pass ? ' ' Nay, 

nay,' she said, 
' Sir Morning- Star. The King in utter 

scorn 
Of thee and thy much folly hath sent 

thee here 
His kitchen-knave ; and look thou to 

thyself. 
See that he fall not on thee suddenly, 
And slay thee unarm'd ; he is not 

knight but knave/ 900 

Then at his call, 'O daughters of 

the Dawn, 
And servants of the Morning-Star, 

aproach, 
Arm me,' from out the silken curtain- 
folds 
Bare-footed and bare-headed three fair 

girls 
In gilt and rosy raiment came. Their 

feet 
In dewy grasses glisten'd ; and the 

hair 
All over glanced with dewdrop or 

with gem 



I 

f 



GARETH AND LYNETTE 



4i5 



Like sparkles in the stone Avanturine. 
These arm'd him in blue arms, and 

gave a shield 
Blue also, and thereon the morning 

star. 910 

And Gareth silent gazed upon the 

knight, * 
Who stood a moment, ere his horse 

was brought, 
Glorying ; and in the stream beneath 

him shone, 
Immingled with heaven's azure waver- 

ingly, 
The gay pavilion and the naked feet, 
His arms, the rosy raiment, and the 

star. 

Then she that watch' d him : ' Where- 
fore stare ye so ? 

Thou shakest in thy fear. There yet 
is time ; 

Flee down the valley before he get to 
horse. 

Who will cry shame? Thou art not 
knight but knave/ 920 

Said Gareth : ' Damsel, whether 

knave or knight, 
Far liefer had I fight a score of times 
Than hear thee so missay me and 

revile. 
Fair words were best for him who 

fights for thee ; 
But truly foul are better, for they 

send 
That strength of anger thro' mine 

arms, I know 
That I shall overthrow him.' 

And he that bore 
The star, when mounted, cried from 

o'er the bridge : 
! A kitchen-knave, and sent in scorn of 

me ! 
Such fight not I, but answer scorn with 

scorn. 930 

For this were shame to do him further 

wrong 
Than set him on his feet, and take his 

horse 
And arms, and so return him to the 

King. 
Come, therefore, leave thy lady lightly, 

knave. 
Avoid ; for it beseemeth not a knave 
To ride with such a lady.' 



* Dog, thou liest \ 
I spring from loftier lineage than thine 

own.' 
He spake ; and all at fiery speed the 

two 
Shock'd on the central bridge, and 

either spear 
Bent but not brake, and either knight 

at once, 94 o 

Hurl'd as a stone from out of a cata- 
pult 
Beyond his horse's crupper and the 

bridge, 
Fell, as if dead ; but quickly rose and 

drew, 
And Gareth lash'd so fiercely with his 

brand 
He drave his enemy backward down 

the bridge, 
The damsel crying, 'Well-stricken, 

kitchen-knave ! ' 
Till Gareth's shield was cloven; but 

one stroke 
Laid him that clove it grovelling on 

the ground. 

Then cried the fallen, 'Take not my 

life; I yield.' 
And Gareth, ' So this damsel ask it of 

me 950 

Good — I accord it easily as a grace.' 
She reddening, 'Insolent scullion! I 

of thee ? 
I bound to thee for any favor ask'd ! ' 
' Then shall he die.' And Gareth there 

unlaced 
His helmet as to slay him, but she 

shriek'd, 
' Be not so hardy, scullion, as to slay 
One nobler than thyself.' 'Damsel,. 

thy charge 
Is an abounding pleasure to me. 

Knight, 
Thy life is thine at her command. 

Arise 
And quickly pass to Arthur's hall, and 

say 9 6 <> 

His kitchen-knave hath sent thee. See 

thou crave 
His pardon for thy breaking of his 

laws. 
Myself when I return will plead for 

thee. 
Thy shield is mine— farewell ; and, 

damsel, thou, 
Lead, and I follow.' 



416 



IDYLLS OF THE KING 



And fast away she fled ; 
Then when he came upon her, spake : 

' Methought, 
Knave, when I watch' d thee striking 

on the bridge, 
The savor of thy kitchen came upon 

me 
A little f aintlier ; but the wind hath 

changed, 
I scent it twenty-fold/ And then she 

sang, 970 

'"O morning star" — not that tall 

felon there 
Whom thou, by sorcery or unhappi- 

ness 
Or some device, hast foully over- 
thrown, — 

' "O morning star that smilest in the blue, 
O star, my morning dream hath proven true, 
Smile sweetly, thou! my love hath smiled 
on me." 

* But thou begone, take counsel, and 
away, 
For hard by here is one that guards a 

ford — 
The second brother in their fool's para- 
ble- 
Will pay thee all thy wages, and to 
boot. 980 

Care not for shame ; thou art not 
knight but knave.' 

To whom Sir Gareth answer' d, 

laughingly : 
4 Parables ? Hear a parable of the 

knave. 
When I was kitchen-knave among the 

rest, 
Fierce was the hearth, and one of my 

co-mates 
Own'd a rough dog, to whom he cast 

his coat, 
" Guard it," and there was none to 

meddle with it. 
And such a coat art thou, and thee 

the King 
Gave me to guard, and such a dog 

am I, 
To worry, and not to flee — and — 

knight or knave — 990 

The knave that doth thee service as 

full knight 
Is all as good, meseems, as any knight 
Toward thy sister's freeing.' 



' Ay, Sir Knave ! 
Ay, knave, because thou strikest as a 

knight, 
Being but knave, I hate thee all the 

more.' 

'Fair damsel, you should worship 
me the more, 
That, being but knave, I throw thine 
enemies.' 

' Ay, ay,' she said, 'but thou shalt 
meet thy match.' 

So when they touch'd the second 

river-loop, 
Huge on a huge red horse, and all in 

mail 1000 

Burnish'd to blinding, shone the Noon- 
day Sun 
Beyond a raging shallow. As if the 

flower 
That blows a globe of after arrow- 
lets 
Ten-thousand-fold had grown, flash' d 

the fierce shield, 
All sun ; and Gareth' s eyes had flying 

blots 
Before them when he turn'd from 

watching him. 
He from beyond the roaring shallow 

roar'd, 
'What doest thou, brother, in my 

marches here ? ' 
And she athwart the shallow shrill'd 

again, 
' Here is a kitchen-knave from Arthur's 

hall 1010 

Hath overthrown thy brother, and 

hath his arms.' 
' Ugh ! ' cried the Sun, and, vizoring 

up a red 
And cipher face of rounded foolish- 
ness, 
Push'd horse across the foamings of 

the ford, 
Whom Gareth met mid-stream ; no 

room was there 
For lance or tourney-skill. Four 

strokes they struck 
With sword, and these were mighty ; 

the new knight 
Had fear he might be shamed ; but as 

the Sun 
Heaved up a ponderous arm to strike 

the fifth, 



GARETH AND LYNETTE 



4i7 



The hoof of his horse slipt in the 
stream, the stream 1020 

Descended, and the Sun was wash'd 
away. 

Then Gareth laid his lance athwart 

the ford ; 
So drew him home ; but he that fought 

no more, 
As being all bone-batter'd on the rock, 
Yielded, and Gareth sent him to the 

King. 
' Myself when I return will plead for 

thee. 
Lead, and I follow/ Quietly she led. 
'Hath not the good wind, damsel, 

changed again ? ' 
' Nay, not a point ; nor art thou victor 

here. 
There lies a ridge of slate across the 

ford ; 1030 

His horse thereon stumbled — ay, for 

I saw it. 

' " O sun " — not this strong fool 
whom thou, Sir Knave, 
Hast overthrown thro' mere unhappi- 
ness — 

' " O sun, that wakenest all to bliss or pain, 
O moon, that layest all to sleep again, 
Shine sweetly; twice my love hath smiled 
on mel" 

'What knowest thou of love-song 

or of love ? 
Nay, nay, God wot, so thou wert nobly 

born, 
Thou hast a pleasant presence. Yea, 

perchance, — 

* "O dewy flowers that open to the sun, 
O dewy flowers that close when day is 

done, 104 1 

Blow sweetly ; twice my love hath smiled 

on me." 

1 What knowest thou of flowers, ex- 
cept, belike, 

To garnish meats with ? hath not our 
good King 

Who lent me thee, the flower of kitch- 
endom, 

A foolish love for flowers ? what stick 
ye round 

The pasty ? wherewithal deck the 
boar's head ? 

Flowers ? nay, the boar hath rosema- 
ries and bay. 



4 " birds that warble to the morning 

sky, 

O birds that warble as the day goes by, 
Sing sweetly; twice my love hath smiled 
on me." 1051 

1 What knowest thou of birds, lark, 

mavis, merle, 
Linnet ? what dream ye when they 

utter forth 
May-music growing with the growing 

light, 
Their sweet sun-worship? these be 

for the snare — 
So runs thy fancy — these be for the 

spit, 
Larding and basting. See thou have 

not now 
Larded thy last, except thou turn and 

fly. 
There stands the third fool of their 

allegory/ 

For there beyond a bridge of treble 
bow, 1060 

All in a rose-red from the west, and all 

Naked it seem' d, and glowing in the 
broad 

Deep-dimpled current underneath, the 
knight 

That named himself the Star of Even- 
ing stood. 

And Gareth, 'Wherefore waits the 

madman there 
Naked in open day shine? ' ' Nay,' she 

cried, 
'Not naked, only wrapt in harden'd 

skins 
That fit him like his own ; and so ye 

cleave 
His armor off him, these will turn the 

blade. ' 

Then the third brother shouted o'er 

the bridge, 1070 

1 brother-star, why shine ye here so 

low? 
Thy ward is higher up ; but have ye 

slain 
The damsel's champion ? ' and the 

damsel cried: 

'No star of thine, but shot from 
Arthur's heaven 
With all disaster unto thine and 
thee! 



4i8 



IDYLLS OF THE KING 



For both thy younger brethren have 

gone down 
Before this youth ; and so wilt thou, 

Sir Star. 
Art thou not old ? ' 

' Old, damsel, old and hard, 
Old, with the might and breath of 

twenty boys/ 
Said Gareth, ' Old, and over-bold in 

brag ! 1080 

But that same strength which threw 

the Morning Star 
Can throw the Evening. ' 

Then that other blew 

A hard and deadly note upon the horn. 

' Approach and arm me ! ' "With slow 
steps from out 

An old storm-beaten, russet, many- 
stain' d 

Pavilion, forth a grizzled damsel came, 

And arm'd him in old arms, and 
brought a helm 

With but a drying evergreen for crest, 

And gave a shield whereon the star of 
even 

Half-tarnish'd and half -bright, his em- 
blem, shone. 1090 

But when it glitter'd o'er the saddle- 
bow, 

They madly hurl'd together on the 
bridge ; 

And Gareth overthrew him, lighted, 
drew, 

There met him drawn, and overthrew 
him again, 

But up like fire he started ; and as oft 

As Gareth brought him grovelling on 
his knees, 

So many a time he vaulted up again ; 

Till Gareth panted hard, and his great 
heart, 

Foredooming all his trouble was in 
vain, 

Labor'd within him, for he seem'd as 
one 1 100 

That all in later, sadder age begins 

To war against ill uses of a life, 

But these from all his life arise, and 
cry, 

' Thou hast made us lords, and canst 
not put us down ! ' 

He half despairs ; so Gareth seem'd to 
strike 



Vainly, the damsel clamoring all the 

while, 
'Well done, knave-knight, well 

stricken, O good knight- 
knave — 
O knave, as noble as any of all the 

knights — 
Shame me not, shame me not. I have 

prophesied — 
Strike, thou art worthy of the Table 

Round — 1 1 10 

His arms are old, he trusts the hard- 

en'd skin — 
Strike — strike — the wind will never 

change again.' 
And Gareth hearing ever stronglier 

smote, 
And hew'd great pieces of his armor 

off him, 
But lash'd in vain against the hard- 
en' d skin, 
And could not wholly bring him 

under, more 
Than loud Southwesterns, rolling 

ridge on ridge, 
The buoy that rides at sea, and dips 

and springs 
For ever ; till at length Sir Gareth' s 

brand 
Clash' d his, and brake it utterly to the 

hilt. 1 1 20 

' I have thee now ; ' but forth that 

other sprang, 
And, all unknightlike, writhed his wiry 

arms 
Around him, till he felt, despite his 

mail, 
Strangled, but straining even his utter- 
most 
Cast, and so hurl'd him headlong o'er 

the bridge 
Down to the river, sink or swim, and 

cried, 
'Lead, and I follow.' 

But the damsel said : 
' I lead no longer ; ride thou at my 

side ; 
Thou art the kingliest of all kitchen- 
knaves. 

' " O trefoil, sparkling on the rainy plain, 
O rainbow with three colors after rain, 1131 
Shine sweetly ; thrice my love hath smiled 
on me!" 



f 



GARETH AND LYNETTE 



419 



Sir, — and, good faith, I fain had 
added — Knight, 

But that I heard thee call thyself a 
knave, — 

Shamed am I that I so rebuked, re- 
viled, 

Missaid thee. Noble I am, and thought 
the King 

Scorn' d me and mine ; and now thy 
pardon, friend, 

For thou hast ever answer' d courte- 
ously, 

And wholly bold thou art, and meek 
withal 

As any of Arthur's best, but, being 
knave, 1140 

Hast maz'd my wit. I marvel what 
thou art/ 

' Damsel/ he said, ' you be not all to 

blame, 
Saving that you mistrusted our good 

King 
Would handle scorn, or yield you, ask- 
ing, one 
Not fit to cope your quest. You said 

your say ; 
Mine answer was my deed. Good 

sooth ! I hold 
He scarce is knight, yea but half -man, 

nor meet 
To fight for gentle damsel, he, who 

lets 
His heart be stirr'd with any foolish 

heat 
At any gentle damsel's waywardness. 
Shamed ? care not ! thy foul sayings 

fought for me ; 1151 

And seeing now thy words are fair, 

methinks 
There rides no knight, not Lancelot, 

his great self, 
Hath force to quell me.' 

Nigh upon that hour 
When the lone hern forgets his melan- 
choly, 
Lets down his other leg, and stretch- 
ing dreams 
Of goodly supper in the distant pool, 
Then turn'd the noble damsel smiling 

at him, 
And told him of a cavern hard at 

hand, 
Where bread and baken meats and 
good red wine 1160 



Of Southland, which the Lady Lyo- 

nors 
Had sent her coming champion, waited 

him. 

Anon they past a narrow comb 

wherein 
Were slabs of rock with figures, 

knights on horse 
Sculptured, and deckt in slowly- 
waning hues. 
' Sir Knave, my knight, a hermit once 

was here, 
Whose holy hand hath fashion'd on 

the rock 
The war of Time against the soul of 

man. 
And yon four fools have suck'd their 

allegory 
From these damp walls, and taken but 

the form. u 7 o 

Know ye not these ? ' and Gareth lookt 

and read — 
In letters like to those the vexillary 
Hath left crag-car ven o'er the stream- 
ing Gelt — 
'Phosphorus,' then 'Meridies,' — 

' Hesperus ' — 
4 Nox ' — ' Mors,' beneath five figures, 

armed men, 
Slab after slab, their faces forward all, 
And running down the Soul, a shape 

that fled 
With broken wings, torn raiment, and 

loose hair, 
For help and shelter to the hermit's 

cave. 
'Follow the faces, and we find it. 

Look, 
Who comes behind ? ' 1180 

For one — delay'd at first 
Thro' helping back the dislocated 

Kay 
To Camelot, then by what thereafter 

chanced, 
The damsel's headlong error thro' the 

wood — 
Sir Lancelot, having swum the river- 
loops — 
His blue shield-lions cover'd — softly 

drew 
Behind the twain, and when he saw 

the star 
Gleam, on Sir Gareth's turning to him, 

cried, 



420 



IDYLLS OF THE KING 



'Stay, felon knight, I avenge me for 

my friend.' 
And Gareth crying prick'd against the 

cry; 1190 

But when they closed — in a moment 

— at one touch 
Of that skill'd spear, the wonder of 

the world — 
Went sliding down so easily, and fell, 
That when he found the grass within 

his hands 
He laugh'd. The laughter jarr'd upon 

Lynette. 
Harshly she ask'd him, ' Shamed and 

overthrown, 
And tumbled back into the kitchen- 
knave, 
Why laugh ye ? that ye blew your 

boast in vain ? ' 
1 Nay, noble damsel, but that I, the son 
Of old King Lot and good Queen Belli- 

cent, 1200 

And victor of the bridges and the ford, 
And knight of Arthur, here lie thrown 

by whom 
I know not, all thro' mere unhappi- 

ness — 
Device and sorcery and unhappiness — 
Out, sword ; we are thrown ! ' And 

Lancelot answer'd : ' Prince, 
O Gareth — thro' the mere unhappi- 
ness 
Of one who came to help thee, not to 

harm, 
Lancelot, and all as glad to find thee 

whole 
As on the day when Arthur knighted 

him.' 

Then Gareth : ' Thou — Lancelot ! — 
thine the hand 12 10 

That threw me ? An some chance to 
mar the boast 

Thy brethren of thee make — which 
could not chance — 

Had sent thee down before a lesser 
spear, 

Shamed had I been, and sad — O Lance- 
lot — thou ! ' 

Whereat the maiden, petulant: 

' Lancelot, 
Why came ye not, when call'd ? and 

wherefore now 
Come ye, not call'd ? I gloried in my 

knave, 



Who being still rebuked would answer 

still 
Courteous as any knight — but now, 

if knight, 
The marvel dies, and leaves me fool'd 

and trick'd, 1220 

And only wondering wherefore play'd 

upon : 
And doubtful whether I and mine be 

scorn'd. 
Where should be truth if not in 

Arthur's hall, 
In Arthurs presence ? Knight, knave, 

prince and fool, 
I hate thee and forever.' 

And Lancelot said : 

1 Blessed be thou, Sir Gareth ! knight 
art thou 

To the King's best wish. O damsel, 
be you wise, 

To call him shamed who is but over- 
thrown ? 

Thrown have I been, nor once, but 
many a time. 

Victor from vanquish'd issues at the 
last, 1230 

And overthrower from being over- 
thrown. 

With sword we have not striven, and 
thy good horse 

And thou are weary ; yet not less I felt 

Thy manhood thro' that wearied lance 
of thine. 

Well hast thou done ; for all the stream 
is freed, 

And thou hast wreak'd his justice on 
his foes, 

And when reviled hast answer'd gra- 
ciously, 

And makest merry when overthrown. 
Prince, knight, 

Hail, knight and prince, and of our 
Table Round ! ' 

And then when turning to Lynette 

he told 1240 

The tale of Gareth, petulantly she said : 
' Ay, well — ay, well — for worse than 

being fool'd 
Of others, is to fool one's self. A cave, 
Sir Lancelot, is hard by, with meats 

and drinks 
And forage for the horse, and flint for 

fire. 
But all about it flies a honeysuckle. 



GARETH AND LYNETTE 



421 






Seek, till we find/ And when they 

sought and found, 
Sir Gareth drank and ate, and all his 

life 
Past into sleep ; on whom the maiden 

gazed : 
' Sound* sleep be thine ! sound cause to 

sleep hast thou. 1250 

Wake lusty ! Seem I not as tender to 

him 
As any mother ? Ay, but such a one 
As all day long hath rated at her child, 
And vext his day, but blesses him 

asleep — 
Good lord, how sweetly smells the 

honeysuckle 
In the hush'd night, as if the world 

were one 
Of utter peace, and love, and gentle- 
ness ! 
O Lancelot, Lancelot,' — and she clapt 

her hands — r 
'Full merry am I to find my goodly 

knave 
Is knight and noble. See now, sworn 

have I, 1260 

Else yon black felon had not let me 



To bring thee back to do the battle 
with him. 

Thus an thou goest, he will fight thee 
first ; 

Who doubts thee victor ? so will my 
knight-knave 

Miss the full flower of this accomplish- 
ment.' 

Said Lancelot : ' Peradventure he 

you name 
May know my shield. Let Gareth, an 

he will, 
Change his for mine, and take my 

charger, fresh, 
Not to be spurr'd, loving the battle 

as well 
As he that rides him. ' ' Lancelot-like, ' 

she said, 1270 

4 Courteous in this, Lord Lancelot, as 

in all/ 

And Gareth, wakening, fiercely 

clutch'd the shield : 
1 Ramp, ye lance-splintering lions, on 

whom all spears 
Are rotten sticks ! ye seem agape to 

roar ! 



Yea, ramp and roar at leaving of your 

lord ! — 
Care not, good beasts, so well I care 

for you. 

noble Lancelot, from my hold on 

these 
Streams virtue — fire — thro' one that 

will not shame 
Even the shadow of Lancelot under 

shield. 
Hence ; let us go.' 

Silent the silent field 
They traversed. Arthur's Harp tho' 

summer-wan, 1281 

In counter motion to the clouds, al- 
lured 
The glance of Gareth dreaming on his 

liege. 
A star shot : ' Lo,' said Gareth, ' the 

foe falls ! ' 
An owl whoop t : 'Hark the victor 

pealing there ! ' 
Suddenly she that rode upon his left 
Clung to the shield that Lancelot lent 

him, crying : 
' Yield, yield him this again ; 't is he 

must fight : 

1 curse the tongue that all thro' yes- 

terday 

Reviled thee, and hath wrought on 
Lancelot now 1290 

To lend thee horse and shield. Won- 
ders ye have done, 

Miracles ye cannot. Here is glory 
enow 

In having flung the three. I see thee 
maim'd, 

Mangled ; I swear thou canst not fling 
the fourth.' 

'And wherefore, damsel? tell me 
all ye know. 

You cannot scare me ; nor rough face, 
or voice, 

Brute bulk of limb, or boundless sav- 
agery 

Appal me from the quest. ' 

'Nay, prince,' she cried, 
' God wot, I never look'd upon the face, 
Seeing he never rides abroad by day. 
But watch'd him have I like a phan- 
tom pass 1301 
Chilling the night ; nor have I hoard 
the voice. 



42 2 



IDYLLS OF THE KING 



Always he made his mouthpiece of a 
page 

Who came and went, and still reported 
him 

As closing in himself the strength of 
ten, 

And when his anger tare him, mas- 
sacring 

Man, woman, lad, and girl — yea, the 
soft babe ! 

Some hold that he hath swallow'd in- 
fant flesh, 

Monster ! O prince, I went for Lance- 
lot first, 

The quest is Lancelot's; give him 
back the shield/ 13 10 

Said Gareth laughing, ' An he fight 
for this, 
Belike he wins it as the better man ; 
Thus — and not else ! ' 

But Lancelot on him urged 
All the devisings of their chivalry 
When one might meet a mightier than 

himself ; 
How best to manage horse, lance, 

sword, and shield, 
And so fill up the gap where force 

might fail 
With skill and fineness. Instant were 

his words. 

Then Gareth : ' Here be rules. I 

know but one — 
To dash against mine enemy and to 

win. 1320 

Yet have I watch' d thee victor in the 

joust, 
And seen thy way. ' ' Heaven help 

thee ! ' sigh'd Lynette. 

Then for a space, and under cloud 

that grew 
To thunder-gloom palling all stars, 

they rode 
In converse till she made her palfrey 

halt, 
Lifted an arm, and softly whisper 'd, 

' There.' 
And all the three were silent seeing, 

pitch'd 
Beside the Castle Perilous on flat field, 
A huge pavilion like a mountain peak 
Sunder the glooming crimson on the 

marge, 1330 



Black, with black banner, and a long 

black horn 
Beside it hanging ; which Sir Gareth 

graspt, 
And so, before the two could hinder 

him, 
Sent all his heart and breath ,fchro' all 

the horn. 
Echo'd the walls ; a light twinkled ; 

anon 
Came lights and lights, and once 

again he blew ; 
Whereon were hollow tramplings up 

and down 
And muffled voices heard, and shad- 
ows past ; 
Till high above him, circled with her 

maids, 
The Lady Lyonors at a window stood, 
Beautiful among lights, and waving 

to him 1341 

White hands and courtesy. But when 

the prince 
Three times had blown — after long 

hush — at last — 
The huge pavilion slowly yielded up, 
Thro' those black foldings, that which 

housed therein. 
High on a night-black horse, in night- 
black arms, 
With white breast-bone, and barren 

ribs of Death, 
And crown'd with fleshless laughter 

— some ten steps — 

In the half-light — thro' the dim dawn 

— advanced 

The monster, and then paused, and 
spake no word. 1350 

But Gareth spake and all indig- 
nantly : 
'Fool, for thou hast, men say, the 

strength of ten, 
Canst thou not trust the limbs thy 

God hath given, 
But must, to make the terror of thee 

more, 
Trick thyself out in ghastly imageries 
Of that which Life hath done with, 

and the clod, 
Less dull than thou, will hide with 

mantling flowers 
As if for pity ? ' But he spake no 

word ; 
Which set the horror higher. A 

maiden swoon'd ; 




THE MARRIAGE OF GERAINT 



423 



The Lady Lyonors wrung her hands 

and wept, 1360 

As doom'd to be the bride of Night 

and Death ; 
Sir Gareth' s head prickled beneath his 

helm; 
And even Sir Lancelot thro' his warm 

blood felt 
Ice strike, and all that mark'd him 

were aghast. 

At once Sir Lancelot's charger 

fiercely neigh'd, 
And Death's dark war-horse bounded 

forward with him. 
Then those that did not blink the ter- 
ror saw 
That Death was cast to ground, and 

slowly rose. 
But with one stroke Sir Gareth split 

the skull. 
Half fell to right and half to left and 

lay. 1370 

Then with a stronger buffet he clove 

the helm 
As throughly as the skull ; and out 

from this 
Issued the bright face of a blooming 

boy 
Fresh as a flower new-born, and cry- 
ing, ' Knight, 
Slay me not ; my three brethren bade 

me do it, 
To make a horror all about the house, 
And stay the world from Lady Lyo- 
nors. 
They never dream'd the passes would 

be past.' 
Answer'd Sir Gareth graciously to one 
Not many a moon his younger, 'My 

fair child, 1380 

What madness made thee challenge 

the chief knight 
Of Arthur's hall ? ' ' Fair Sir, they 

bade me do it. 
They hate the King and Lancelot, the 

King's friend ; 
They hoped to slay him somewhere on 

the stream, 
They never dream'd the passes could 

be past. ' 

Then sprang the happier day from 
underground ; 
And Lady Lyonors and her house, 
with dance 



And revel and song, made merry over 

Death, 
As being after all their foolish fears 
And horrors only proven a blooming 

boy. I39 o 

So large mirth lived, and Gareth won 

the quest. 

And he that told the tale in older 
times 
Says that Sir Gareth wedded Lyonors, 
But he that told it later says Lynette. 



THE MARRIAGE OF GERAINT 

The brave Geraint, a knight of 

Arthur's court, 
A tributary prince of Devon, one 
Of that great Order of the Table 

Round, 
Had married Enid, Yniol's only child, 
And loved her as he loved the light of 

heaven. 
And as the light of heaven varies, now 
At sunrise, now at sunset, now by 

night 
With moon and trembling stars, so 

loved Geraint 
To make her beauty vary day by day, 
In crimsons and in purples and in 

gems. 10 

And Enid, but to please her husband's 

eye, 
Who first had found and loved her in 

a state 
Of broken fortunes, daily fronted him 
In some fresh splendor ; and the Queen 

herself, 
Grateful to Prince Geraint for service 

done, 
Loved her, and often with her own 

white hands 
Array' d and deck'd her, as the loveli- 
est, 
Next after her own self, in all the 

court. 
And Enid loved the Queen, and with 

true heart 
Adored her, as the stateliest and the 

best 20 

And loveliest of all women upon earth. 
And seeing them so tender and so 

close, 
Long in their common love rejoiced 

Geraint. 



424 



IDYLLS OF THE KING 



But when a rumor rose about the 

Queen, 
Touching her guilty love for Lancelot, 
Tho' yet there lived no proof, nor yet 

was heard 
The world's loud whisper breaking 

into storm, 
Not less Geraint believed it ; and there 

fell 
A horror on him lest his gentle wife, 
Thro' that great tenderness for Guine- 
vere, 30 
Had suffer' d or should suffer any taint 
In nature. Wherefore, going to the 

King, 
He made this pretext, that his prince- 
dom lay 
Close on the borders of a territory 
Wherein were bandit earls, and caitiff 

knights, 
Assassins, and all flyers from the 

hand 
Of Justice, and whatever loathes a 

law; 
And therefore, till the King himself 

should please 
To cleanse this common sewer of all 

his realm, 
He craved a fair permission to depart, 
And there defend his marches. And 

the King 41 

Mused for a little on his plea, but, 

last, 
Allowing it, the prince and Enid rode, 
And fifty knights rode with them, to 

the shores 
Of Severn, and they past to their own 

land ; 
Where, thinking that, if ever yet was 

wife 
True to her lord, mine shall be so to 

me, 
He compass'd her with sweet obser- 
vance's 
And worship, never leaving her, and 

grew 49 

Forgetful of his promise to the King, 
Forgetful of the falcon and the hunt, 
Forgetful of the tilt and tournament, 
Forgetful of his glory and his name, 
Forgetful of his princedom and its' 

cares. 
And this forgetf ulness was hateful to 

her. 
And by and by the people, when they 

met 



In twos and threes, or fuller compa- 
nies, 

Began to scoff and jeer and babble of 
him 

As of a prince whose manhood was 
all gone, 

And molten down in mere uxorious- 
ness. 60 

And this she gather'd from the peo- 
ple's eyes ; 

This too the women who attired her 
head, 

To please her, dwelling on his bound- 
less love, 

Told Enid, and they sadden' d her the 
. more ; 

And day by day she thought to tell 
Geraint, 

But could not out of bashful delicacy, 

While he, that watch'd her sadden, 
was the more 

Suspicious that her nature had a 
taint. 

At last, it chanced that on a summer 

morn — 
They sleeping each by either — the 

new sun 70 

Beat thro' the blindless casement of 

the room, 
And heated the strong warrior in his 

dreams ; 
Who, moving, cast the coverlet aside, 
And bared the knotted column of his 

throat, 
The massive square of his heroic 

breast, 
And arms on which the standing 

muscle sloped, 
As slopes a wild brook o'er a little 

stone, 
Running too vehemently to break 

upon it. 
And Enid woke and sat beside the 

couch, 
Admiring him, and thought within 

herself, 80 

Was ever man so grandly made as 

he? 
Then, like a shadow, past the people's 

talk 
And accusation of uxoriousness 
Across her mind, and, bowing over 

him, 
Low to her own heart piteously she 

said : 






THE MARRIAGE OF GERAINT 



425. 



' noble breast and all- puissant 

arms, 
Am I the cause, I the poor cause that 

men 
Reproach you, saying all your force 

is gone ? 
I am the cause, because I dare not 

speak 
And tell him what I think and what 

they say. 90 

And yet I hate that he should linger 

here; 
I cannot love my lord and not his 

name. 
Far liefer had I gird his harness on 

him, 
And ride with him to battle and stand 

by, 

And watch his mightf ul hand striking 

great blows 
At caitiffs and at wrongers of the 

world. 
Far better were I laid in the dark 

earth, 
Not hearing any more his noble voice, 
Not to be folded more in these dear 

arms, 
And darken' d from the high light in 

his eyes, 100 

Than that my lord thro' me should 

suffer shame. 
Am I so bold, and could I so stand 

by, 

And see my dear lord wounded in the 

strife, 
Or maybe pierced to death before 

mine eyes, 
And yet not dare to tell him what I 

think, 
And how men slur him, saying all his 

force 
Is melted into mere effeminacy ? 
O me, I fear that I am no true wife ! ' 

Half inwardly, half audibly she 

spoke, 
And the strong passion in her made 

her weep no 

True tears upon his broad and naked 

breast, 
And these awoke him, and by great 

mischance 
He heard but fragments of her later 

words, 
And that she fear'd she was not a 

true wife. 



And then he thought, ' In spite of all 

my care, 
For all my pains, poor man, for all 

my pains, 
She is not faithful to me, and I see 

her 
Weeping for some gay knight in 

Arthur's hall.' 
Then, tho' he loved and reverenced 

her too much 
To dream she could be guilty of foul 

act, 120 

Right thro' his manful breast darted 

the pang 
That makes a man, in the sweet face 

of her 
Whom he loves most, lonely and mis- 
erable. 
At this he hurl'd his huge limbs out 

of bed, 
And shook his drowsy squire awake 

and cried, 
1 My charger and her palfrey ; ' then 

to her, 
' I will ride forth into the wilderness, 
For, tho' it seems my spurs are yet to 

win, 
I have not fallen so low as some would 

wish. 
And thou, put on thy worst and 

meanest dress 130 

And ride with me.' And Enid ask'd, 

amazed, 
'If Enid errs, let Enid learn her 

fault.' 
But he, 'I charge thee, ask not, but 

obey.' 
Then she bethought her of a faded 

silk, 
A faded mantle and a faded veil, 
And moving toward a cedarn cabinet, 
Wherein she kept them folded rever- 
ently 
With sprigs of summer laid between 

the folds, 
She took them, and array'd herself 

therein, 
Remembering when first he came on 

her 140 

Drest in that dress, and how he loved 

her in it, 
And all her foolish fears about the 

dress, 
And all his journey to her, as himself 
Had told her, and their coming to the 

court. 



426 



IDYLLS OF THE KING 



For Arthur on the Whitsuntide be- 
fore 

Held court at old Caerleon upon 
Usk. 

There on a day, he sitting high in 
hall, 

Before him came a forester of Dean, 

AYet from the woods, with notice of a 
hart 

Taller than all his fellows, milky- 
white, 150 

First seen that day; these things he 
told the King. 

Then the good King gave order to let 
blow 

His horns for hunting on the morrow 
morn, 

And when the Queen petition' d for 
his leave 

To see the hunt, allow'd it easily. 

So with the morning all the court 
were gone. 

But Guinevere lay late into the 
morn, 

Lost in sweet dreams, and dreaming 
of her love 

For Lancelot, and forgetful of the 
hunt, 

But rose at last, a single maiden with 
her, 160 

Took horse, and forded Usk, and 
gain'd the wood ; 

There, on a little knoll beside it, 
stay'd 

Waiting to hear the hounds, but heard 
instead 

A sudden sound of hoofs, for Prince 
Geraint, 

Late also, wearing neither hunting- 
dress 

Nor weapon save a golden-hilted 
brand, 

Came quickly flashing thro' the shal- 
low ford 

Behind them, and so gallop' d up the 
knoll. 

A purple scarf, at either end whereof 

There swung an apple of the purest 
gold, 170 

Sway'd round about him, as he gal- 

lop'd up 
To join them, glancing like a dragon- 
fly 

In summer suit and silks of holiday. 
Low bow'd the tributary prince, and 
she, 



Sweetly and statelily, and with all 

grace 
Of womanhood and queenhood, an- 
swer' d him : 
' Late, late, Sir Prince,' she said, 

' later than we ! ' 
'Yea, noble Queen,' he answer'd, 

1 and so late 
That I but come like you to see the 

hunt. 
Not join it.' 'Therefore wait with 

me,' she said ; 180 

' For on this little knoll, if anywhere, 
There is good chance that we shall 

hear the hounds : 
Here often they break covert at our 

feet.' 

And while they listen' d for the dis- 
tant hunt, 
And chiefly for the baying of Cavall, 
King Arthur's hound of deepest 

mouth, there rode 
Full slowly by a knight, lady, and 

dwarf ; 
Whereof the dwarf lagg'd latest, and 

the knight 
Had vizor up, and show'd a youthful 

face, 
Imperious, and of haughtiest linea- 
ments. 190 
And Guinevere, not mindful of his 

face 
In the King's hall, desired his name, 

and sent 
Her maiden to demand it of the 

dwarf, 
Who being vicious, old, and irritable, 
And doubling all his master's vice of 

pride, 
Made answer sharply that she should 

not know. 
'Then will I ask it of himself,' she 

said. 
' Nay, by my faith, thou shalt not,' 

cried the dwarf ; 
' Thou art not worthy even to speak 

of him ; ' 
And when she put her horse toward 

the knight, 200 

Struck at her with his whip, and she 

return' d 
Indignant to the Queen ; whereat 

Geraint 
Exclaiming, ' Surely I will learn the 

name,' 



THE MARRIAGE OF GERAINT 



427 



Made sharply to the dwarf, and ask'd 

it of him, 
Who answer' d as before ; and when 

the prince 
Had put his horse in motion toward 

the knight, 
Struck at him with his whip, and cut 

his cheek. 
The prince's blood spirted upon the 

scarf, 
Dyeing it ; and his quick, instinctive 

hand 
Caught at the hilt, as to abolish 

him : 210 

But he, from his exceeding manfulness 
And pure nobility of temperament, 
Wroth to be wroth at such a worm, 

refrain'd 
From even a word, and so returning 

said: 

' 1 will avenge this insult, noble 
Queen, 

Done in your maiden's person to your- 
self, 

And I will track this vermin to their 
earths ; 

For tho' I ride unarm'd, I do not 
doubt 

To find, at some place I shall come at, 
arms 

On loan, or else for pledge ; and, being 
found, 220 

Then will I fight him, and will break 
his pride, 

And on the third day will again be 
here, 

So that I be not fallen in fight. Fare- 
well/ 

4 Farewell, fair prince/ answer'd 

the stately Queen. 
* Be prosperous in this journey, as in 

all; 
And may you light on all things that 

you love, 
And live to wed with her whom first 

you love. 
But ere you wed with any, bring your 

bride, 
And I, were she the daughter of a 

king, 
Yea, tho' she were a beggar from the 

hedge, 230 

Will clothe her for her bridals like 

the sun.' 



And Prince Geraint, now thinking 
that he heard 
The noble hart at bay, now the far 

horn, 
A little vext at losing of the hunt, 
A little at the vile occasion, rode, 
By ups and downs, thro' many a 

grassy glade 
And valley, with fixt eye following 

the three. 
At last they issued from the world of 

wood, 
And climb' d upon a fair and even 

ridge, 
And show'd themselves against the 
sky, and sank. 240 

And thither came Geraint, and under- 
neath 
Beheld the long street of a little town 
In a long valley, on one side whereof, 
White from the mason's hand, a for- 
tress rose ; 
And on one side a castle in decay, 
Beyond a bridge that spann'd a dry 

ravine. 
And out of town and valley came a 

noise 

As of a broad brook o'er a shingly bed 

Brawling, or like a clamor of the rooks 

At distance, ere they settle for the 

night. 250 

And onward to the fortress rode the 
three, 

And enter' d, and were lost behind the 
walls. 

' So,' thought Geraint, ' I have track'd 
him to his earth/ 

And down the long street riding wea- 
rily, 

Found every hostel full, and every- 
where 

Was hammer laid to hoof, and the hot 
hiss 

And bustling whistle of the youth 
who scour' d 

His master's armor ; and of such a 
one 

He ask'd, ' What means the tumult in 
the town ? ' 

Who told him, scouring still, 'The 
sparrow-hawk ! ' 260 

Then riding close behind an ancient 
churl, 

Who, smitten by the dusty sloping 
beam, 



428 



IDYLLS OF THE KING 



Went sweating underneath a sack of 

corn, 
Ask'd yet once more what meant the 

hubbub here ? 
Who answer'd gruffly, ' Ugh ! the 
sparrow-hawk ! ' 

Then riding further past an armor- 
er's, 

Who, with back turn'd, and bow'd 
above his work, 

Sat riveting a helmet on his knee, 

He put the selfsame query, but the 
man 

Not turning round, nor looking at him, 
said : 270 

' Friend, he that labors for the sparrow- 
hawk 

Has little time for idle questioners/ 

Whereat Geraint flash' d into sudden 
spleen : 

1 A thousand pips eat up your sparrow- 
hawk ! 

Tits, wrens, and all wing'd nothings 
peck him dead ! 

Ye think the rustic cackle of your 
bourg 

The murmur of the world ! What is 
it to me ? 

O wretched set of sparrows, one and 
all, 

Who pipe of nothing but of sparrow- 
hawks ! 

Speak, if ye be not like the rest, hawk- 
mad, 280 

Where can I get me harborage for the 
night ? 

And arms, arms, arms to fight my 
enemy ? Speak ! ' 

Whereat the armorer turning all 
amazed 

And seeing one so gay in purple 
silks, 

Came forward with the helmet yet in 
hand 

And answer'd : ' Pardon me, O stranger 
knight ; 

We hold a tourney here to-morrow 
morn, 

And there is scantly time for half the 
work. 

Arms ? truth ! I know not ; all are 
wanted here. 

Harborage ? truth, good truth, I know 
not, save, 290 

It may be, at Earl Yniol's, o'er the 
bridge 



Yonder.' He spoke and fell to work 
again. 

Then rode Geraint, a little spleenful 

yet, 

Across the bridge that spann'd the 
dry ravine. 

There musing sat the hoary-headed 
earl — 

His dress a suit of fray'd magnifi- 
cence, 

Once fit for feasts of ceremony — and 
said: 

' Whither, fair son ? ' to whom Geraint 
replied, 

1 O friend, I seek a harborage for the 
night. ' 

Then Yniol, ' Enter therefore and par- 
take 300 

The slender entertainment of a house 

Once rich, now poor, but ever open- 
door' d.' 

'Thanks, venerable friend,' replied 
Geraint ; 

1 So that ye do not serve me sparrow- 
hawks 

For supper, I will enter, I will eat 

With all the passion of a twelve hours' 
fast.' 

Then sigh'd and smiled the hoary- 
headed earl, 

And answer'd, ' Graver cause than 
yours is mine 

To curse this hedgerow thief, the spar- 
row-hawk. 

But in, go in ; for save yourself desire 

it, 3!o 

We will not touch upon him even in 
jest' 

Then rode Geraint into the castle 

court, 
His charger trampling many a prickly 

star 
Of sprouted thistle on the broken 

stones. 
He look'd and saw that all was ruin- 
ous. 
Here stood a shatter'd archway plumed 

with fern ; 
And here had fallen a great part of a 

tower, 
Whole, like a crag that tumbles from 

the cliff, 
And like a crag was gay with wilding 

flowers ; 



THE MARRIAGE OF GERAINT 



429 







• And high above a piece of turret stair, 
Worn by the feet that now were silent, wound. 
Bare to the sun ' 



And high above a piece of turret stair, 

Worn by the feet that now were silent, 
wound 321 

Bare to the sun, and monstrous ivy- 
stems 

Claspt the gray walls with hairy-fibred 
arms, 

And suck'd the joining of the stones, 
and look'd 

A knot, beneath, of snakes, aloft, a 
grove. 



And while he waited in the castle 

court, 
The voice of Enid, Yniol's daughter, 

rang 
Clear thro' the open casement of the 

hall, 
Singing ; and as the sweet voice of a 

bird, 
Heard by the lander in a lonely isle, 
Moves him to think what kind of bird 

it is 331 



43° 



IDYLLS OF THE KING 



That sings so delicately clear, and 

make 
Conjecture of the plumage and the 

form, 
So the sweet voice of Enid moved 

Geraint, 
And made him like a man abroad at 

morn 
When first the liquid note beloved of 

men 
Comes flying over many a windy wave 
To Britain, and in April suddenly 
Breaks from a coppice gemm'd with 

green and red, 
And he suspends his converse with a 

friend, 340 

Or it may be the labor of his hands, 
To think or say, ' There is the night- 
ingale : ' 
So fared it with Geraint, who thought 

and said, 
' Here, by God's grace, is the one voice 

for me.' 

It chanced the song that Enid sang 
was one 
Of Fortune and her wheel, and Enid 
sang : 

'Turn, Fortune, turn thy wheel, and 

lower the proud ; 
Turn thy wild wheel thro' sunshine, storm, 

and cloud ; 
Thy wheel and thee we neither love nor 

hate. 

'Turn, Fortune, turn thy wheel with 
smile or frown ; 35° 

With that wild wheel we go not up or 
down ; 

Our hoard is little, but our hearts are great. 

' Smile and we smile, the lords of many 

lands ; 
Frown and we smile, the lords of our own 

hands ; 
For man is man and master of his fate. 

' Turn, turn thy wheel above the staring 

crowd ; 
Thy wheel and thou are shadows in the 

cloud ; 
Thy wheel and thee we neither love nor 

hate.' 

'Hark, by the bird's song ye may 
learn the nest,' 
Said Yniol; 'enter quickly.' Enter- 
ing then, 360 



Right o'er a mount of newly -fallen 
stones, 

The dusky - rafter' d many-cobweb'd 
hall, 

He found an ancient dame in dim bro- 
cade ; 

And near her, like a blossom vermeil- 
white 

That lightly breaks a faded flower- 
sheath, 

Moved the fair Enid, all in faded 
silk, 

Her daughter. In a moment thought 
Geraint, 

' Here, by God's rood, is the one maid 
for me/ 

But none spake word except the hoary 
earl: 

'Enid, the good knight's horse stands 
in the court ; 370 

Take him to stall, and give him corn, 
and then 

Go to the town and buy us flesh and 
wine ; 

And we will make us merry as we 
may. 

Our hoard is little, but our hearts are 
great.' 

He spake ; the prince, as Enid past 

him, fain 
To follow, strode a stride, but Yniol 

caught 
His purple scarf, and held, and said, 

' Forbear ! 
Rest ! the good house, tho' ruin'd, O 

my son, 
Endures not that her guest should 

serve himself.' 
And reverencing the custom of the 

house 380 

Geraint, from utter courtesy, forebore. 

So Enid took his charger to the stall, 
And after went her way across the 

bridge, 
And reach'd the town, and while the 

prince and earl 
Yet spoke together, came again with 

one, 
A youth that, following with a costrel, 

bore 
The means of goodly welcome, flesh 

and wine. 
And Enid brought sweet cakes to make 

them cheer, 



THE MARRIAGE OF GERAINT 



43i 



And, in her veil enfolded, manchet 

bread. 
And then, because their hall must also 

serve 39° 

For kitchen, boil'd the flesh, and spread 

the board, 
And stood behind, and waited on the 

three. 
And, seeing her so sweet and service- 
able, 
Geraint had longing in him evermore 
To stoop and kiss the tender little 

thumb 
That crost the trencher as she laid it 

down. 
But after all had eaten, then Geraint, 
For now the wine made summer in his 

veins, 
Let his eye rove in following, or rest 
On Enid at her lowly handmaid-work, 
Now here, now there, about the dusky 

hall ; 401 

Then suddenly addrest the hoary earl : 

' Fair host and earl, I pray your 

courtesy ; 
This sparrow-hawk, what is he? tell 

me of him. 
His name ? but no, good faith, I will 

not have it ; 
For if he be the knight whom late I 

saw 
Ride into that new fortress by your 

town, 
White from the mason's hand, then 

have I sworn 
From his own lips to have it — I am 

Geraint 
Of Devon — for this morning when 

the Queen 410 

Sent her own maiden to demand the 

name, 
His dwarf, a vicious under-shapen 

thing, 
Struck at her with his whip, and she 

return'd 
Indignant to the Queen ; and then I 

swore 
That I would track this caitiff to his 

hold, 
And fight and break his pride, and 

have it of him. 
And all unarm' d I rode, and thought 

to find 
Arms in your town, where all the men 

are mad ; 



They take the rustic murmur of their 

bourg 
For the great wave that echoes round 

the world. 420 

They would not hear me speak ; but 

if ye know 
Where I can light on arms, or if your- 
self 
Should have them, tell me, seeing I 

have sworn 
That I will break his pride and learn 

his name, 
Avenging this great insult done the 

Queen/ 

Then cried Earl Yniol : ' Art thou 

he indeed, 
Geraint, a name far- sounded among 

men 
For noble deeds? and truly I, when 

first 
I saw you moving by me on the bridge, 
Felt ye were somewhat, yea, and by 

your state 430 

And presence might have guess'd you 

one of those 
That eat in Arthur's hall at Camelot. 
Nor speak I now from foolish flattery ; 
For this dear child hath often heard 

me praise 
Your feats of arms, and often when I 

paused 
Hath ask'd again, and ever loved to 

hear; 
So grateful is the noise of noble deeds 
To noble hearts who see but acts of 

wrong. 
O, never yet had woman such a pair 
Of suitors as this maiden ; first Li- 

mours, 440 

A creature wholly given to brawls and 

wine, 
Drunk even when he woo'd ; and be 

he dead 
I know not, but he past to the wild 

land. 
The second was your foe, the sparrow- 
hawk, 
My curse, my nephew — I will not 

let his name 
Slip from my lips if I can help it — 

he, 
When I that knew him fierce and tur- 
bulent 
Refused her to him, then his pride 

awoke ; 



432 



IDYLLS OF THE KING 



And since the proud man often is the 

mean, 
He sow'd a slander in the common 

ear, 450 

Affirming that his father left him 

gold, 
And in my charge, which was not 

render'd to him ; 
Bribed with large promises the men 

who served 
About my person, the more easily 
Because my means were somewhat 

broken into 
Thro' open doors and hospitality ; 
Raised my own town against me in 

the night 
Before my Enid's birthday, sack'd my 

house ; 
From mine own earldom foully ousted 

me ; 
Built that new fort to overawe my 

friends, 460 

For truly there are those who love 

me yet ; 
And keeps me in this ruinous castle 

here, 
Where doubtless he would put me 

soon to death 
But that his pride too much despises 

me. 
And I myself sometimes despise my- 
self; 
For I have let men be and have their 

way, 
Am much too gentle, have not used 

my power ; 
Nor know I whether I be very base 
Or very manful, whether very wise 
Or very foolish ; only this I know, 47 o 
That whatsoever evil happen to me, 
I seem to suffer nothing heart or limb, 
But can endure it all most patiently/ 

' Well said, true heart,' replied Ge- 

raint, ' but arms, 
That if the sparrow - hawk, this 

nephew, fight 
In next day's tourney I may break his 

pride.' 

And Yniol answer'd : ' Arms, in- 
deed, but old 

And rusty, old and rusty, Prince Ge- 
raint, 

Are mine, and therefore, at thine ask- 
ing, thine. 



But in this tournament can no man 
tilt, 480 

Except the lady he loves best be there. 

Two forks are fixt into the meadow 
ground, 

And over these is placed a silver wand, 

And over that a golden sparrow-hawk, 

The prize of beauty for the fairest 
there. 

And this, what knight soever be in 
field 

Lays claim to for the lady at his 
side, 

And tilts with my good nephew there- 
upon, 

Who being apt at arms and big of 
bone 

Has ever won it for the lady with 
him, 490 

And toppling over all antagonism 

Has earn'd himself the name of spar- 
row-hawk. 

But thou, that hast no lady, canst not 
fight.' 

To whom Geraint with eyes all 

bright replied, 
Leaning a little toward him: 'Thy 

leave ! 
Let me lay lance in rest, O noble host, 
For this dear child, because I never 

saw, 
Tho' having seen all beauties of our 

time, 
Nor can see elsewhere, anything so 

fair. 
And if I fall her name will yet remain 
Untarnish'd as before ; but if I live, 501 
So aid me heaven when at mine utter- 
most 
As I will make her truly my true 

wife ! ' 

Then, howsoever patient, Yniol' s 
heart 

Danced in his bosom, seeing better 
days. 

And looking round he saw not Enid 
there — 

Who hearing her own name had stolen 
away — 

But that old dame, to whom full ten- 
derly 

And fondling all her hand in his he 
said : 

' Mother, a maiden is a tender thing, 



THE MARRIAGE OF GERAINT 



433 



And best by her that bore her under- 
stood. 511 

Go thou to rest, but ere thou go to 
rest 

Tell her, and prove her heart toward 
the prince.' 

So spake the kindly-hearted earl, 

and she. 
With frequent smile and nod depart- 
ing found, 
Half disarray'd as to her rest, the 

girl; 
Whom first she kiss'd on either cheek, 

and then 
On either shining shoulder laid a hand. 
And kept her off and gazed upon her 

face, 
And told her all their converse in the 

hall, 520 

Proving her heart. But never light 

and shade 
Coursed one another more on open 

ground 
Beneath a troubled heaven than red 

and pale 
Across the face of Enid hearing her ; 
W T hile slowly falling as a scale that 

falls, 
When weight is added only grain by 

grain, 
Sank her sweet head upon her gentle 

breast ; 
Nor did she lift an eye nor speak a 

word, 
Rapt in the fear and in the wonder of 

it. 
So moving without answer to her rest 
She found no rest, and ever fail'd to 

draw 531 

The quiet night into her blood, but 

lay 
Contemplating her own unworthiness ; 
And when the pale and bloodless east 



To quicken to the sun, arose, and 

raised 
Her mother too, and hand in hand 

they moved 
Down to the meadow where the jousts 

were held, 
And waited there for Yniol and Ge- 

raint. 

And thither came the twain, and 
when Geraint 



Beheld her first in field, awaiting 

him, 540 

He felt, were she the prize of bodily 

force, 
Himself beyond the rest pushing could 

move 
The Chair of Idris. Yniol' s rusted 

arms 
Were on his princely person, but thro' 

these 
Prince-like his bearing shone ; and 

errant knights 
And ladies came, and by and by the 

town 
Flow'd in and settling circled all the 

lists. 
And there they fixt the forks into the 

ground, 
And over these they placed the silver 

wand, 
And over that the golden sparrow- 
hawk. 550 
Then Yniol' s nephew, after trumpet 

blown, 
Spake to the lady with him and pro- 

claim'd, 
' Advance and take, the fairest of the 

fair, 
What I these two years past have 

won for thee, 
The prize of beauty.' Loudly spake 

the prince, 
' Forbear ; there is a worthier,' and 

the knight 
With some surprise and thrice as much 

disdain 
Turn'd, and beheld the four, and all 

his face 
Glow'd like the heart of a great fire at 

Yule, 
So burnt he was with passion, crying 

out, 560 

'Do battle for it then,' no more ; and 

thrice 
They clash'd together, and thrice they 

brake their spears. 
Then each, dishorsed and drawing, 

lash'd at each 
So often and with such blows that all 

the crowd 
Wonder'd, and now and then from 

distant walls 
There came a clapping as of phantom 

hands. 
So twice they fought, and twice they 

breathed, and still 



434 



IDYLLS OF THE KING 



The dew of their great labor and the 

blood 
Of their strong bodies, flowing, drain' d 

their force. 
But either' s force was match'd till 

Yniol's cry, 570 

' Remember that great insult done the 

Queen,' 
Increased Geraint's, who heaved his 

blade aloft, 
And crack' d the helmet thro', and bit 

the bone, 
And fell'd him, and set foot upon his 

breast, 
And said, ' Thy name ? ' To whom 

the fallen man 
Made answer, groaning : ' Edyrn, son 

of Nudd ! 
Ashamed am I that I should tell it 

thee. 
My pride is broken ; men have seen 

my fall.' 
' Then, Edyrn, son of Nudd/ replied 

Geraint, 
1 These two things shalt thou do, or 

else thou diest. 580 

First, thou thyself, with damsel and 

with dwarf, 
Shalt ride to Arthur's court and, com- 
ing there, 
Crave pardon for that insult done the 

Queen, 
And shalt abide her judgment on it; 

next, 
Thou shalt give back their earldom to 

thy kin. 
These two things shalt thou do, or 

thou shalt die.' 
And Edyrn answer'd, ' These things 

will I do, 
For I have never yet been overthrown, 
And thou hast overthrown me, and 

my pride 
Is broken down, for Enid sees my fall ! ' 
And rising up he rode to Arthur's 

court, 591 

And there the Queen forgave him eas- 

And, being young, he changed and 
came to loathe 

His crime of traitor, slowly drew him- 
self 

Bright from his old dark life, and fell 
at last 

In the great battle fighting for the 
King. 



But when the third day from the 
hunting-morn 

Made a low splendor in the world, and 
wings 

Moved in her ivy, Enid, for she lay 

With her fair head in the dim-yellow 
light, 600 

Among the dancing shadows of the 
birds, 

Woke and bethought her of her pro- 
mise given 

No later than last eve to Prince Ge- 
raint — 

So bent he seem'd on going the third 
day, 

He would not leave her till her pro- 
mise given — 

To ride with him this morning to the 
court, 

And there be made known to the 
stately Queen, 

And there be wedded with all cere- 
mony. 

At this she cast her eyes upon her dress, 

And thought it never yet had look'd 
so mean. 610 

For as a leaf in mid -November is 

To what it was in mid-October, seem'd 

The dress that now she look'd on to 
the dress 

She look'd on ere the coming of Ge- 
raint. 

And still she look'd, and still the ter- 
ror grew 

Of that strange bright and dreadful 
thing, a court. 

All staring at her in her faded silk ; 

And softly to her own sweet heart she 
said: 

'This noble prince who won our 
earldom back, 
So splendid in his acts and his attire, 
Sweet heaven, how much I shall dis- 
credit him ! 621 
Would he could tarry with us here 

awhile, 
But being so beholden to the prince, 
It were but little grace in any of us, 
Bent as he seem'd on going this third 

day, 
To seek a second favor at his hands. 
Yet if he could but tarry a day or two, 
Myself would work eye dim and finger 

lame 
Far liefer than so much discredit him.' 



THE MARRIAGE OF GERAINT 



435 



And Enid fell in longing for a 

dress 630 

All branched and flower' d with gold, a 

costly gift 
Of her good mother, given her on the 

night 
Before her birthday, three sad years 

ago, 
That night of fire, when Edyrn sack'd 

their house 
And scatter' d all they had to all the 

winds ; 



8vMk"Ks ■ ■ ■ ■ 



For while the mother show'd it, and 

the two 
Were turning and admiring it, the 

work 
To both appear'd so costly, rose a cry 
That Edyrn' s men were on them, and 

they fled 
With little save the jewels they had on, 
Which being sold and sold had bought 

them bread. 641 

And Edyrn' s men had caught them in 

their flight, 




'"First, thou thyself, with damsel ami with dwari, 
Shalt ride to Arthur's court " ' 



436 



IDYLLS OF THE KING 



And placed them in this ruin ; and 

she wish'd 
The prince had found her in her an- 
cient home ; 
Then let her fancy flit across the past, 
And roam the goodly places that she 

knew ; 
And last bethought her how she used 

to watch. 
Near that old home, a pool of golden 

carp; 
And one was patch'd and blurr'd and 

lustreless 
Among his burnish'd brethren of the 

pool ; ^ 650 

And half asleep she made comparison 
Of that and these to her own faded self 
And the gay court, and fell asleep 

again, 
And dreamt herself was such a f^ded 

form 
Among her burnish'd sisters of the 

pool. 
But this was in the garden of a king, 
And tho' she lay dark in the pool she 

knew 
That all was bright; that all about 

were birds 
Of sunny plume in gilded trellis-work ; 
That all the turf was rich in plots that 

look'd 660 

Each like a garnet or a turkis in it ; 
And lords and ladies of the high court 

went 
In silver tissue talking things of state ; 
And children of the King in cloth of 

gold 
Glanced at the doors or gambol' d 

down the walks. 
And while she thought, 'They will 

not see me,' came 
A stately queen whose name was 

Guinevere, 
And all the children in their cloth of 

gold 
Ran to her, crying, 'If we have fish 

at all 
Let them be gold ; and charge the 

gardeners now 670 

To pick the faded creature from the 

pool, 
And cast it on the mixen that it die.' 
And therewithal one came and seized 

on her, 
And Enid started waking, with her 

heart 



All overshadowed by the foolish dream, 
And lo ! it was her mother grasping her 
To get her well awake ; and in her hand 
A suit of bright apparel, which she laid 
Flat on the couch, and spoke exult- 
ingly : 

' See here, my child, how fresh the 

colors look, 680 

How fast they hold, like colors of a 

shell 
That keeps the wear and polish of the 

wave. 
Why not ? It never yet was worn, I 

trow : 
Look on it, child, and tell me if ye 

know it.' 

And Enid look'd, but, all confused 
at first, 

Could scarce divide it from her foolish 
dream. 

Then suddenly she knew it and re- 
joiced, 

And answer'd, ' Yea, I know it ; your 
good gift, 

So sadly lost on that unhappy night ; 

Your own good gift !' * Yea, surely,' 
said the dame, 690 

' And gladly given again this happy 
morn. 

For when the jousts were ended yes- 
terday, 

Went Yniol thro' the town, and every- 
where 

He foimd the sack and plunder of our 
house 

All scatter'd thro' the houses of the 
town, 

And gave command that all which 
once was ours 

Should now be ours again ; and yester- 
eve, 

While ye were talking sweetly with 
your prince, 

Came one with this and laid it in my 
hand, 

For love or fear, or seeking favor of 

US, 700 

Because we have our earldom back 

again. 
And y ester- eve I would not tell you 

of it, 
But kept it for a sweet surprise at 

morn. 
Yea, truly is it not a sweet surprise ? 



THE MARRIAGE OF GERAINT 



437 






For I myself unwillingly have worn 
My faded suit, as you, my child, have 

yours, 
And, howsoever patient, Yniol his. 
Ah, dear, he took me from a goodly 

house, 
With store of rich apparel, sumptuous 

fare, 
And page, and maid, and squire, and 

seneschal, 710 

And pastime both of hawk and hound, 

and all 
That appertains to noble maintenance. 
Yea, and he brought me to a goodly 

house ; 
But since our fortune swerved from 

sun to shade, 
And all thro' that young traitor, cruel 

need 
Constraint us, but a better time has 

come. 
So clothe yourself in this, that better 

fits 
Our mended fortunes and a prince's 

bride ; 
For tho' ye won the prize of fairest 

fair, 
And tho' I heard him call you fairest 

fair, 720 

Let never maiden think, however fair, 
She is not fairer in new clothes than 

old. 
And should some great court-lady say, 

the prince 
Hath pick'd a ragged-robin from the 

hedge, 
And like a madman brought her to 

the court, 
Then were ye shamed, and, worse, 

might shame the prince 
To whom we are beholden; but I 

know, 
When my dear child is set forth at her 

best, 
That neither court nor country, tho' 

they sought 
Thro' all the provinces like those of old 
That lighted on Queen Esther, has her 

match/ 731 

Here ceased the kindly mother out 

of breath, 
And Enid listen'd brightening as she 

lay; 
Then, as the white and glittering star 

of morn 



Parts from a bank of snow, by and by 
Slips into golden cloud, the maiden 

rose, 
And left her maiden couch, and robed 

herself, 
Help'd by the mother's careful hand 

and eye, 
Without a mirror, in the gorgeous 

gown; 
Who, after, turn'd her daughter round, 

and said 740 

She never yet had seen her half so fair ; 
And call'd her like that maiden in the 

tale, 
Whom Gwydion made by glamour out 

of flowers, 
And sweeter than the bride of Cassive 

laun, 
Flur, for whose love the Roman Caesar 

first 
Invaded Britain : 'But we beat him 

back, 
As this great prince invaded us, and 

we, 
Not beat him back, but welcomed him 

with joy. 
And I can scarcely ride with you to 

court, 
For old am I, and rough the ways and 

wild ; 750 

But Yniol goes, and I full oft shall 

dream 
I see my princess as I see her now, 
Clothed with my gift and gay among 

the gay.' 

But while the women thus rejoiced, 

Geraint 
Woke where he slept in the high hall, 

and call'd 
For Enid, and when Yniol made report 
Of that good mother making Enid gay 
In such apparel as might well beseem 
His princess, or indeed the stately 

Queen, 
He answer'd : ' Earl, entreat her by my 

love, 760 

Albeit I give no reason but my wish, 
That she ride with me in her faded 

silk.' 
Yniol with that hard message went ; it 

fell 
Like flaws in summer laying lusty 

corn ; 
For Enid, all abash'd, she knew not 

why, 



438 



IDYLLS OF THE KING 



Dared not to glance at her good 

mother's face, 
But silently, in all obedience, 
Her mother silent too, nor helping 

her, 
Laid from her limbs the costly-broid- 

er'd gift, 
And robed them in her ancient suit 

again, 770 

And so descended. Never man re j oiced 
More than Geraint to greet her thus 

attired ; 
And glancing all at once as keenly at 

her 
As careful robins eye the delver's toil, 
Made her cheek burn and either eyelid 

fall, 
But rested with her sweet face satis- 
fied ; 
Then seeing cloud upon the mother's 

brow, 
Her by both hands he caught, and 

sweetly said : 

1 my new mother, be not wroth or 

grieved 
At thy new son, for my petition to 

her. 780 

When late I left Caerleon, our great 

Queen, 
In words whose echo lasts, they were 

so sweet, 
Made promise that, whatever bride I 

brought, 
Herself would clothe her like the sun 

in heaven. 
Thereafter, when I reach'd this ruin'd 

hall, 
Beholding one so bright in dark estate, 
I vow'd that, could I gain her, our fair 

Queen, 
No hand but hers, should make your 

Enid burst 
Sunlike from cloud — and likewise 

thought perhaps, 
That service done so graciously would 

bind 790 

The two together; fain I would the 

two 
Should love each other. How can Enid 

find 
A nobler friend ? Another thought 

was mine : 
I came among you here so suddenly 
That tho' her gentle presence at the 

lists 



Might well have served for proof that 

I was loved, 
I doubted whether daughter's tender- 
ness, 
Or easy nature, might not let itself 
Be moulded by your wishes for her 

weal ; 
Or whether some false sense in her 

own self 800 

Of my contrasting brightness overbore 
Her fancy dwelling in this dusky hall, 
And such a sense might make her long 

for court 
And all its perilous glories ; and I 

thought, 
That could I someway prove such force 

in her 
Link'd with such love for me that at 

a word, 
No reason given her, she could cast 

aside 
A splendor dear to women, new to her, 
And therefore dearer ; or if not so new, 
Yet therefore tenfold dearer by the 

power 810 

Of intermitted usage ; then I felt 
That I could rest, a rock in ebbs and 

flows, 
Fixt on her faith. Now, therefore, I 

do rest, 
A prophet certain of my prophecy, 
That never shadow of mistrust can 

cross 
Between us. Grant me pardon for my 

thoughts ; 
And for my strange petition I will 

make 
Amends hereafter by some gaudy-day, 
When your fair child shall wear your 

costly gift 
Beside your own warm hearth, with, 

on her knees, 820 

Who knows ? another gift of the high 

God, 
Which, maybe, shall have learn'd to 

lisp you thanks.' 

He spoke ; the mother smiled, but 

half in tears, 
Then brought a mantle down and 

wrapt her in it, 
And claspt and kiss'd her, and they 

rode away. 

Now thrice that morning Guinevere 
had climb' d 



GERAINT AND ENID 



439 



The giant tower, from whose high 

crest, they say, 
Men saw the goodly hills of Somerset, 
And white sails flying on the yellow 

sea; 
But not to goodly hill or yellow sea 830 
Look'd the fair Queen but up the vale 

of Usk, 
By the flat meadow, till she saw them 

come; 
And then descending met them at the 



Embraced her with all welcome as a 

friend, 
And did her honor as the prince's 

bride, 
And clothed her for her bridals like 

the sun ; 
And all that week was old Caerleon 

gay, 
For by the hands of Dubric, the high 

saint, 
They twain were wedded with all 

ceremony. 

And this was on the last year's 

Whitsuntide. 840 

But Enid ever kept the faded silk, 
Remembering how first he came on 

her 
Drest in that dress, and how he loved 

her in it, 
And all her foolish fears about the 

dress, 
And all his journey toward her, as 

himself 
Had told her, and their coming to the 

court. 

And now this morning when he said 

to her, 
1 Put on your worst and meanest dress,' 

she found 
And took it, and array'd herself therein. 



GERAINT AND ENID 

O purblind race of miserable men, 
How many among us at this very hour 
Do forge a lifelong trouble for our- 
selves, 
By taking true for false, or false for 

true ; 
Here, thro' the feeble twilight of this 
world 



Groping, how many, until we pass and 

reach 
That other where we see as we are 

seen ! 

So fared it with Geraint, who issu- 
ing forth 
That morning, when they both had got 

to horse, 
Perhaps because he loved her passion- 
ately, 10 
And felt that tempest brooding round 

his heart 
Which, if he spoke at all, would break 

perforce 
Upon a head so dear in thunder, said : 
' Not at my side. I charge thee ride 

before, 
Ever a good way on before ; and this 
I charge thee, on thy duty as a wife, 
Whatever happens, not to speak to me, 
No, not a word ! ' and Enid was aghast ; 
And forth they rode, but scarce three 

paces on, 
When crying out, ' Effeminate as I am, 
I will not fight my way with gilded 

arms, 21 

All shall be iron ; ' he loosed a mighty 

purse, 
Hung at his belt, and hurl'd it toward 

the squire. 
So the last sight that Enid had of home 
Was all the marble threshold flashing, 

strown 
With gold and scatter' d coinage, and 

the squire 
Chafing his shoulder. Then he cried 

again, 
1 To the wilds ! ' and Enid leading down 

the tracks 
Thro' which he bade her lead him on, 

they past 
The marches, and by bandit-haunted 

holds, 30 

Gray swamps and pools, waste places 

of the hern, 
And wildernesses, perilous paths, they 

rode. 
Round was their pace at first, but 

slacken'd soon. 
A stranger meeting them had surely 

thought, 
They rode so slowly and they look'd 

so pale, 
That each had suffered some exceeding 

wronsr 



440 



IDYLLS OF THE KING 



! 



For he was ever saying to himself, 

' 0, I that wasted time to tend upon 
her, 

To compass her with sweet observ- 
ances, 

To dress her beautifully and keep her 
true ' — 40 

And there he broke the sentence in his 
heart 

Abruptly, as a man upon his tongue 

May break it when his passion masters 
him. 

And she was ever praying the sweet 
heavens 

To save her dear lord whole from any 
wound. 

And ever in her mind she cast about 

For that unnoticed failing in her- 
self 

Which made him look so cloudy and 
so cold ; 

Till the great plover's human whistle 
amazed 

Her heart, and glancing round the 
waste she fear'd 50 

In every wavering brake an ambus- 
cade ; 

Then thought again, ' If there be such 
in me, 

I might amend it by the grace of Hea- 
ven, 

If he would only speak and tell me of 
it.' 

But when the fourth part of the day 

was gone, 
Then Enid was aware of three tall 

knights 
On horseback, wholly arm'd, behind a 

rock 
In shadow, waiting for them, caitiffs 

all; 
And heard one crying to his fellow, 

1 Look, 
Here comes a laggard hanging down 

his head, 60 

Who seems no bolder than a beaten 

hound ; 
Come, we will slay him and will have 

his horse 
And armor, and his damsel shall be 

ours.' 

Then Enid ponder'd in her heart, 
and said : 
1 I will go back a little to my lord, 



And I will tell him all their caitiff 

talk; 
For, be he wroth even to slaying 

me, 
Far liefer by his dear hand had I die 
Than that my lord should suffer loss 

or shame.' 

Then she went back some paces of 
return, 70 

Met his full frown timidly firm, and 
said : 

' My lord, I saw three bandits by the 
rock 

Waiting to fall on you, and heard 
them boast 

That they would slay you, and pos- 
sess your horse 

And armor, and your damsel should 
be theirs.' 

He made a wrathful answer : ' Did 
I wish 

Your warning or your silence ? one 
command 

I laid upon you, not to speak to me, 

And thus ye keep it ! Well then, 
look — for now, 

Whether ye wish me victory or de- 
feat, 80 

Long for my life or hunger for my 
death, 

Yourself shall see my vigor is not 
lost.' 

Then Enid waited pale and sorrow- 
ful, 

And down upon him bare the bandit 
three. 

And at the midmost charging, Prince 
Geraint 

Drave the long spear a cubit thro' his 
breast 

And out beyond ; and then against 
his brace 

Of comrades, each of whom had 
broken on him 

A lance that splinter'd like an icicle, 

Swung from his brand a windy buffet 
out 9° 

Once, twice, to right, to left, and 
stunn'd the twain 

Or slew them, and dismounting, like a 
man 

That skins the wild beast after slay- 
ing him, 



GERAINT AND ENID 



441 



Stript from the three dead wolves of 

woman born 
The three gay suits of armor which 

they wore, 
And let the bodies lie, but bound the 

suits 
Of armor on their horses, each on each, 
And tied the bridle-reins of all the 

three 
Together, and said to her, 'Drive 

them on 
Before you ; ' and she drove tljem 

thro' the waste. 100 

He follow'd nearer ; ruth began to 

work 
Against his anger in him, while he 

watch'd 
The being he loved best in all the 

world, 
With difficulty in mild obedience 
Driving them on. He fain had spoken 

to her, 
And loosed in words of sudden fire 

the wrath 
And smoulder' d wrong that burnt him 

all within ; 
But evermore it seem'd an easier 

thing 
At once without remorse to strike her 

dead 
Than to cry 'Halt,' and to her own 

bright face no 

Accuse her of the least immodesty : 
And thus tongue-tied, it made him 

wroth the more 
That she could speak whom his own 

ear had heard 
Call herself false, and suffering thus 

he made 
Minutes an age ; but in scarce longer 

time 
Than at Caerleon the full-tided Usk, 
Before he turn to fall seaward again, 
Pauses, did Enid, keeping watch, be- 
hold 
In the first shallow shade of a deep 

wood, 
Before a gloom of stubborn-shafted 

oaks, 120 

Three other horsemen waiting, wholly 

arm'd, 
Whereof one seem'd far larger than 

her lord, 
And shook her pulses, crying, ' Look, 

a prize ! 



Three horses and three goodly suits of 

arms, 
And all in charge of whom ? a girl ! 

set on.' 
' Nay,' said the second, 'yonder comes 

a knight' 
The third, ' A craven ; how he hangs 

his head ! ' 
The giant answer'd merrily, 'Yea, 

but one ? 
Wait here, and when he passes fall 

upon him ! ' 

And Enid ponder'd in her heart and 

said : 130 

' I will abide the coming of my lord, 
And I will tell him all their villainy. 
My lord is weary with the fight before, 
And they will fall upon him unawares. 
I needs must disobey him for his 

good; 
How should I dare obey him to his 

harm ? 
Needs must I speak, and tho' he kill 

me for it, 
I save a life dearer to me than mine.' 

And she abode his coming, and said 

to him 
With timid firmness, ' Have I leave to 

speak ? ' 140 

He said, ' Ye take it, speaking,' and 

she spoke : 

' There lurk three villains yonder in 

the wood, 
And each of them is wholly arm'd, 

and one 
Is larger-limb'd than you are, and 

they say 
That they will fall upon you while ye 

pass/ 

To which he flung a wrathful an- 
swer back : 

' And if there were an hundred in the 
wood, 

And every man were larger-limb'd 
than I, 

And all at once should sally out upon 
me, 

I swear it would not ruffle me so 
much 1 s° 

As you that not obey me. Stand 
aside, 

And if I fall, cleave to the better man.' 



442 



IDYLLS OF THE KING 



And Enid stood aside to wait the 

event, 
Not dare to watch the combat, only 

breathe. 
Short fits of prayer, at every stroke a 

breath, 
And he she dreaded most bare down 

upon him. 
Aim'd at the helm, his lance err'd ■ 

but Geraint's, 
A little in the late encounter strain'd, 
Struck thro' the bulky bandit's corse- 
let home, 
And then brake short, and down his 

enemy roll'd, 160 

And there lay still; as he that tells 

the tale 
Saw once a great piece of a promon- 
tory, 
That had a sapling growing on it, slide 
From the long shore-cliff's windy walls 

to the beach, 
And there lie still, and yet the sapling 

grew ; 
So lay the man transfixt. His craven 

pair 
Of comrades making slowlier at the 

prince, 
When now they saw their bulwark 

fallen, stood ; 
On whom the victor, to confound 

them more, 
Spurr'd with his terrible war-cry ; for 

as one, 170 

That listens near a torrent mountain 

brook, 
All thro' the crash of the near cataract 

hears 
The drumming thunder of the huger 

fall 
At distance, were the soldiers wont 

to hear 
His voice in battle, and be kindled 

by it, 
And foemen scared, like that false 

pair who turn'd 
Flying, but, overtaken, died the death 
Themselves had wrought on many an 

innocent. 

Thereon Geraint, dismounting, 

pick'd the lance 
That pleased him best, and drew from 

those dead wolves 180 

Their three gay suits of armor, each 

from each, 



And bound them on their horses, each 

on each. 
And tied the bridle-reins of all the 

three 
Together, and said to her, ' Drive 

them on 
Before you,' and she drove them thro' 

the wood. 

He follow'd nearer still. The pain 

she had 
To keep them in the wild ways of the 

wood, 
Two sets of three laden with jingling 

arms, 
Together, served a little to disedge 
The sharpness of that pain about her 

heart ; 190 

And they themselves, like creatures 

gently born 
But into bad hands fallen, and now so 

long 
By bandits groom'd, prick'd their light 

ears, and felt 
Her low firm voice and tender govern- 
ment. 

So thro' the green gloom of the 
wood they past, 

And issuing under open heavens be- 
held 

A little town with towers, upon a 
rock, 

And close beneath, a meadow gemlike 
chased 

In the brown wild, and mowers mow- 
ing in it ; 

And down a rocky pathway from the 
place 200 

There came a f air-hair'd youth, that in 
his hand 

Bare victual for the mowers; and 
Geraint 

Had ruth again on Enid looking pale. 

Then, moving downward to the mea- 
dow ground, 

He, when the fair-hair' d youth came 
by him, said, 

1 Friend, let her eat ; the damsel is so 
faint/ 

' Yea, willingly,' replied the youth ; 
1 and thou, 

My lord, eat also, tho' the fare is 
coarse, 

And only meet for mowers ; ' then set 
down 



GERAINT AND ENID 



443 




*" Friend, let her eat ; the damsel is so faint' 



His basket, and dismounting on the 
sward 210 

They let the horses graze, and ate 
themselves. 

And Enid took a little delicately, 

Less having stomach for it than de- 
sire 

To close with her lord's pleasure, but 
Geraint 

Ate all the mowers' victual unawares, 

And when he found all empty was 
amazed ; 



And 'Boy,' said he, ' I have eaten all, 
but take 

A horse and arms for guerdon ; choose 
the best/ 

He, reddening in extremity of de- 
light, 

'My lord, you overpay me fifty-fold.' 

'Ye will be all the wealthier,' cried 
the prince. 221 

' I take it as free gift, then,' said the 
boy, 

' Not guerdon ; for myself can easily, 



444 



IDYLLS OF THE KING 



While your good damsel rests, return 

and fetch 
Fresh victual for these mowers of our 

earl ; 
For these are his, and all the field is 

his, 
And I myself am his ; and I will tell 

him 
How great a man thou art. He loves 

to know 
When men of mark are in his territory ; 
And he will have thee to his palace 

here, 230 

And serve thee costlier than with 

mowers' fare.' 

Then said Geraint : ' I wish no bet- 
ter fare ; 

I never ate with angrier appetite 

Than when I left your mowers dinner- 
less. 

And into no earl's palace will I go. 

I know, God knows, too much of pal- 
aces ! 

And if he want me, let him come to 
me. 

But hire us some fair chamber for the 
night, 

And stalling for the horses, and return 

With victual for these men, and let us 
know/ 240 

'Yea, my kind lord,' said the glad 
youth, and went, 
Held his head high, and thought him- 
self a knight, 
And up the rocky pathway disappear'd, 
Leading the horse, and they were left 
alone. 

But when the prince had brought 

his errant eyes 
Home from the rock, sideways he let 

them glance 
At Enid, where she droopt. His own 

false doom, 
That shadow of mistrust should never 

cross 
Betwixt them, came upon him, and he 

sigh'd ; 
Then with another humorous ruth re- 

mark'd 250 

The lusty mowers laboring dinnerless, 
And watch'd the sun blaze on the 

turning scythe, 
And after nodded sleepily in the heat. 



But she, remembering her old ruin'd 

hall, 
And all the windy clamor of the daws 
About her hollow turret, pluck' d the 

grass 
There growing longest by the mea- 
dow's edge, 
And into many a listless annulet, 
Now over, now beneath her marriage 

ring, 
Wove and unwove it, till the boy re- 

turn'd 260 

And told them of a chamber, and they 

went ; 
Where, after saying to her, ' If ye will, 
Call for the woman of the house,' to 

which 
She answer'd, ' Thanks, my lord ; ' the 

two remain' d 
Apart by all the chamber's width, and 

mute 
As creatures voiceless thro' the fault 

of birth, 
Or two wild men supporters of a 

shield, 
Painted, who stare at open space, nor 

glance 
The one at other, parted by the shield . 

On a sudden, many a voice along 
the street, 270 

And heel against the pavement echo- 
ing, burst 
Their drowse ; and either started while 

the door, 
Push'd from without, drave backward 

to the wall, 
And midmost of a rout of roisterers, 
Femininely fair and dissolutely pale, 
Her suitor in old years before Geraint 
Enter'd, the wild lord of the place, 

Limours. 
He moving up with pliant courtliness 
Greeted Geraint full face, but stealth- 

In the mid-warmth of welcome and 
grasp t hand, 280 

Found Enid with the corner of his eye, 

And knew her sitting sad and solitary. 

Then cried Geraint for wine and 
goodly cheer 

To feed the sudden guest, and sump- 
tuously, 

According to his fashion, bade the host 

Call in what men soever were his 
friends, 



GERAINT AND ENID 



445 



And feast with these in honor of their 

earl ; ■ 
1 And care not for the cost ; the cost is 

mine/ 

And wine and food were brought, 

and Earl Limours 
Drank till he jested with all ease, and 

told 290 

Free tales, and took the word and 

play'd upon it, 
And made it of two colors ; for his 

talk, 
When wine and free companions kin- 
dled him, 
Was wont to glance and sparkle like 

a gem 
Of fifty facets; thus he moved the 

prince 
To laughter and his comrades to ap- 
plause. 
Then when the prince was merry, ask'd 

Limours, 
'Your leave, my lord, to cross the 

room, and speak 
To your good damsel there who sits 

apart, 
And seems so lonely?' 'My free 

leave,' he said ; 300 

1 Get her to speak ; she doth not speak 

to me. ' 
Then rose Limours, and looking at his 

feet, 
Like him who tries the bridge he fears 

may fail, 
Crost and came near, lifted adoring 

eyes, 
Bow'd at her side and utter'd whisper- 

ingly: 

' Enid, the pilot star of my lone life, 
Enid, my early and my only love, 
Enid, the loss of whom hath turn'd me 

wild — 
What chance is this ? how is it I see 

you here ? 
Ye are in my power at last, are in my 
power. 310 

Yet fear me not ; I call mine own self 

wild, 
But keep a touch of sweet civility 
Here in the heart of waste and wilder- 
ness. 
I thought, but that your father came 

between, 
In former days you saw me favorably. 



And if it were so do not keep it back. 
Make me a little happier ; let me 

know it. 
Owe you me nothing for a life half- 

lost? 
Yea, yea, the whole dear debt of all 

you are. 
And, Enid, you and he, I see with 

j°y> 320 

\ e sit apart, you do not speak to him, 
You come with no attendance, page 

or maid, 
To serve you — doth he love you as of 

old? 
For, call it lovers' quarrels, yet I 

know 
Tho' men may bicker with the things 

they love, 
They would not make them laughable 

in all eyes, 
Not while they loved them ; and your 

wretched dress, 
A wretched insult on you, dumbly 

speaks 
Your story, that this man loves you 

no more. 
Your beauty is no beauty to him now. 
A commoo chance — right well I know 

it— pall'd— 331 

For I know men ; nor will ye win him 

back, 
For the man's love once gone never 

returns. 
But here is one who loves you as of 

old; 
With more exceeding passion than of 

old. 
Good, speak the word; my followers 

ring him round. 
He sits unarm' d ; I hold a finger up ; 
They understand. Nay, I do not mean 

blood ; 
Nor need ye look so scared at what I 

say. 
My malice is no deeper than a moat, 
No stronger than a wall. There is 

the keep ; 341 

He shall not cross us more ; speak but 

the word. 
Or speak it not ; but then by Him that 

made me 
The one true lover whom you ever 

own'd, 
I will make use of all the power I have. 
O, pardon me ! the madness of that 

hour 



446 



IDYLLS OF THE KING 



When first I parted from thee moves 
me yet.' 

At this the tender sound of his own 

voice 
And sweet self-pity, or the fancy of it, 
Made his eye moist ; but Enid fear'd 

his eyes, 350 

Moist as they were, wine-heated from 

the feast, 
And answer'd with such craft as women 

use, 
Guilty or guiltless, to stave off a chance 
That breaks upon them perilously, and 

said: 

' Earl, if you love me as in former 
years, 

And do not practise on me, come with 
morn, 

And snatch me from him as by vio- 
lence. 

Leave me to-night ; I am weary to the 
death/ 

Low at leave-taking, with his bran- 
dish' d plume 

Brushing his instep, bow'd the all- 
amorous earl, 360 

And the stout prince bade him a loud 
good-night. 

He moving homeward babbled to his 
men, 

How Enid never loved a man but him, 

Nor cared a broken egg-shell for her 
lord. 

But Enid left alone with Prince Ge- 

raint, 
Debating his command of silence 

given, 
And that she now perforce must vio- 
late it, 
Held commune with herself, and while 

she held 
He fell asleep, and Enid had no heart 
To wake him, but hung o'er him, 

wholly pleased 370 

To find him yet unwounded after fight, 
And hear him breathing low and 

equally. 
Anon she rose and, stepping lightly, 

heap'd 
The pieces of his armor in one place, 
All to be there against a sudden 

need; 



Then dozed awhile herself, but, over 

toil'd 
By that day's grief and travel, ever- 
more 
Seem'd catching at a rootless thorn, 

and then 
Went slipping down horrible preci- 
pices, 
And strongly striking out her limbs 

awoke ; 380 

Then thought she heard the wild earl 

at the door, 
With all his rout of random followers, 
Sound on a dreadful trumpet, sum- 
moning her ; 
Which was the red cock shouting to 

the light, 
As the gray dawn stole o'er the dewy 

world 
And glimmer'd on his armor in the 

room. 
And once again she rose to look at it, 
But touch'd it unawares; jangling, the 

casque 
Fell, and he started up and stared at 

her. 
Then breaking his command of silence 

given, 390 

She told him all that Earl Limours had 

said, 
Except the passage that he loved her 

not ; 
Nor left untold the craft herself had 

used, 
But ended with apology so sweet, 
Low-spoken, and of so few words, and 

seem'd 
So justified by that necessity, 
That tho' he thought, ' Was it for him 

she wept 
In Devon ? ' he but gave a wrathful 

groan, 
Saying, ' Your sweet faces make good 

fellows fools 
And traitors. Call the host and bid 

him bring 400 

Charger and palfrey.' So she glided 

out 
Among the heavy breathings of the 

house, 
And like a household spirit at the walls 
Beat, till she woke the sleepers, and 

return'd ; 
Then tending her rough lord, tho' all 

unask'd, 
In silence, did him service as a squire ; 



GERAINT AND ENID 



447 



Till issuing arm'd he found the host 

and cried, 
' Thy reckoning, friend ? ' and ere he 

learnt it, ' Take 
Five horses and their armors ; ' and the 

host, 
Suddenly honest, answer' d in amaze, 
' My lord, I scarce have spent the worth 

of one!' 411 

'Ye will be all the wealthier/ said the 

prince, 
And then to Enid, ' Forward ! and to- 
day 
I charge you, Enid, more especially, 
What thing soever ye may hear, or 

see, 
Or fancy — tho' I count it of small use 
To charge you — that ye speak not but 

obey.' 

And Enid answer'd : ' Yea, my lord, 
I know 

Your wish and would obey ; but, rid- 
ing first, 

I hear the violent threats you do not 
hear, 420 

I see the danger which you cannot see. 

Then not to give you warning, that 
seems hard, 

Almost beyond me ; yet I would obey.' 

1 Yea so/ said he, ' do it ; be not too 

wise, 
Seeing that ye are wedded to a man, 
Not all mismated with a yawning 

clown, 
But one with arms to guard his head 

and yours, 
With eyes to find you out however far, 
And ears to hear you even in his 

dreams.' 

With that he turn'd and look'd as 
keenly at her 43 o 

As careful robins eye the d elver's toil ; 

And that within her which a wanton 
fool 

Or hasty judger would have call'd her 
guilt 

Made her cheek burn and either eyelid 
fall. 

And Geraint look'd and was not satis- 
fied. 

Then forward by a way which, 
beaten broad, 



Led from the territory of false Limours 

To the waste earldom of another earl, 

Doorm, whom his shaking vassals 
call'd the Bull, 

Went Enid with her sullen follower 
on. 44 o' 

Once she look'd back, and when she 
saw him ride 

More near by many a rood than yester- 
morn, 

It wellnigh made her cheerful ; till 
Geraint, 

Waving an angry hand as who should 
say, 

' Ye watch me/ sadden'd all her heart 
again. 

But while the sun yet beat a dewy 
blade, 

The sound of many a heavily-galloping 
hoof 

Smote on her ear, and turning round 
she saw 

Dust, and the points of lances bicker 
in it. 

Then, not to disobey her lord's behest, 

And yet to give him warning, for he 
rode 451 

As if he heard not, moving back she 
held 

Her finger up, and pointed to the dust. 

At which the warrior in his obstinacy, 

Because she kept the letter of his word, 

Was in a manner pleased, and turning 
stood. 

And in the moment after, wild Li- 
mours, 

Borne on a black horse, like a thunder- 
cloud 

Whose skirts are loosen'd by the break- 
ing storm, 

Half ridden off with by the thing he 
rode, 460 

And all in passion uttering a dry shriek, 

Dash'd on Geraint, who closed with 
him, and bore 

Down by the length of lance and arm 
beyond 

The crupper, and so left him stunn'd 
or dead, 

And overthrew the next that follow'd 
him, 

And blindly rush'd on all the rout be- 
hind. 

But at the flash and motion of the man 

They vanisb'd panic-stricken, like a 
shoal 



44 8 



IDYLLS OF THE KING 



Of darting fish, that on a summer morn 
Adown the crystal dykes at Camelot 
Come slipping o'er their shadows on 

the sand, 471 

But if a man who stands upon the brink 
But lift a shining hand against the sun, 
There is not left the twinkle of a fin 
Betwixt the cressy islets white in 

flower ; 
So, scared but at the motion of the 

man, 
Fled all the boon companions of the 

earl, 
And left him lying in the public way ; 
So vanish friendships only made in 



Then like a stormy sunlight smiled 
Geraint, 480 

Who saw the chargers of the two 
that fell 

Start from their fallen lords and wildly 

fly, 

Mixt with the flyers. ' Horse and 

man/ he said, 
1 All of one mind and all right-honest 

friends ! 
Not a hoof left ! and I methinks till 

now 
Was honest — paid with horses and 

with arms ; 
I cannot steal or plunder, no, nor beg. 
And so what say ye, shall we strip 

him there, 
Your lover? has your palfrey heart 

enough 
To bear his armor ? shall we fast or 

dine ? 49 o 

No ? — then do thou, being right hon- 
est, pray 
That we may meet the horsemen of 

Earl Doorm ; 
I too would still be honest.' Thus he 

said; 
And sadly gazing on her bridle-reins, 
And answering not one word, she led 

the way. 

But as a man to whom a dreadful 

loss 
Falls in a far land and he knows it 

not, 
But coming back he learns it, and the 

loss 
So pains him that he sickens nigh to 

death ; 



So fared it with Geraint, who, being- 

prick'd 5 oo 

In combat with the follower of Li- 

mours, 
Bled underneath his armor secretly, 
And so rode on, nor told his gentle 

wife 
What ail'd him, hardly knowing it 

himself, 
Till his eye darken'd and his helmet 

wagg'd ; 
And at a sudden swerving of the road, 
Tho' happily down on a bank of 

grass, 
The prince, without a word, from his 

horse fell. 

And Enid heard the clashing of his 

fall, 
Suddenly came, and at his side all 

pale 510 

Dismounting loosed the fastenings of 

his arms, 
Nor let her true hand falter, nor blue 

eye 
Moisten, till she had lighted on his 

wound, 1 

And tearing off her veil of faded silk 
Had bared her forehead to the blister- 
ing sun, 
And swathed the hurt that drain'd her 

dear lord's life. 
Then, after all was done that hand 

could do, 
She rested, and her desolation came 
Upon her, and she wept beside the 

way. 

And many past, but none regarded 
her, 520 

For in that realm of lawless turbu- 
lence 

A woman weeping for her murder'd 
mate 

Was cared as much for as a summer 
shower. 

One took him for a victim of Earl 
Doorm, 

Nor dared to waste a perilous pity on 
him. 

Another hurrying past, a man-at-arms, 

Rode on a mission to the bandit earl ; 

Half whistling and half singing a 
coarse song, 

He drove the dust against her veilless 
eyes. 



GERAINT AND ENID 



449 



Another, flying from the wrath of 

Doorm 530 

Before an ever-fancied arrow, made 
The long way smoke beneath him in 

his fear ; 
At which her palfrey whinnying lifted 

heel, 
And scour'd into the coppices and was 

lost, 
While the great charger stood, grieved 

like a man. 

But at the point of noon the huge 

Earl Doorm, 
Broad-faced with under- fringe of rus- 
set beard, 
Bound on a foray, rolling eyes of 

prey, 
Came riding with a hundred lances 

up; 
But ere he came, like one that hails a 

ship, 540 

Cried out with a big voice, ' What, is 

he dead ? ' 
'No, no, not dead!' she answer'd in 

all haste. 
'Would some of your kind people 

take him up, 
And bear him hence out of this cruel 

sun? 
Most sure am I, quite sure, he is not 

dead/ 

Then said Earl Doorm : * Well, if 

he be not dead, 
Why wail ye for him thus ? ye seem 

a child. 
And be he dead, I count you for a 

fool ; 
Your wailing will not quicken him ; 

dead or not, 
Ye mar a comely face with idiot tears. 
Yet, since the face is comely — some 

of you, 55I 

Here, take him up, and bear him to 

our hall. 
An if he live, we will have him of our 

band; 
And if he die, why earth has earth 

enough 
To hide him. See ye take the charger 

too, 
A noble one.' 

He spake and past away, 
But left two brawny spearmen, who 

advanced, 



Each growling like a dog, when his 

good bone 
Seems to be pluck'd at by the village 

boys 
Who love to vex him eating, and he 

fears 560 

To lose his bone, and lays his foot 

upon it, 
Gnawing and growling ; so the ruffians 

growl'd, 
Fearing to lose, and all for a dead 

man, 
Their chance of booty from the morn- 
ing's raid, 
Yet raised and laid him on a litter- 
bier, 
Such as they brought upon their 

forays out 
For those that might be wounded; 

laid him on it 
All in the hollow of his shield, and 

took 
And bore him to the naked hall of 

Doorm — 
His gentle charger following him un- 

led — 570 

And cast him and the bier in which 

he lay 
Down on an oaken settle in the hall, 
And then departed, hot in haste to 

join 
Their luckier mates, but growling as 

before, 
And cursing their lost time, and the 

dead man, 
And their own earl, and their own 

souls, and her. 
They might as well have blest her ; 

she was deaf 
To blessing or to cursing save from 

one. 

So for long hours sat Enid by her 
lord 

There in the naked hall, propping his 
head, 580 

And chafing his pale hands, and call- 
ing to him, 

Till at the last he waken'd from his 
swoon, 

And found his own dear bride prop- 
ping his head, 

And chafing his faint hands, and call- 
ing to him ; 

And felt the warm tears falling on his 
face„ 



45° 



IDYLLS OF THE KING 



And said to his own heart, ' She weeps 
for me ; ' 

And yet lay still, and feign' d himself 
as dead, 

That he might prove her to the utter- 
most, 

And say to his own heart, ' She weeps 
for me.' 

But in the falling afternoon re- 

turn'd 590 

The huge Earl Doorm with plunder 

to the hall. 
His lusty spearmen follow'd him with 

noise : 
Each hurling down a heap of things 

that rang 
Against the pavement, cast his lance 

aside, 
And doff'd his helm ; and then there 

flutter'd in, 
Half -bold, half -frighted, with dilated 

eyes, 
A tribe of women, dress'd in many 

hues, 
And mingled with the spearmen ; 

and Earl Doorm 
Struck with a knife's haft hard against 

the board, 
And call'd for flesh and wine to feed 

his spears. 600 

And men brought in whole hogs and 

quarter beeves, 
And all the hall was dim with steam 

of flesh. 
And none spake word, but all sat 

down at once, 
And ate with tumult in the naked 

hall, 
Feeding like horses when you hear 

them feed ; 
Till Enid shrank far back into herself, 
To shun the wild ways of the lawless 

tribe. 
But when Earl Doorm had eaten all 

he would, 
He roll'd his eyes about the hall, and 

found 
A damsel drooping in a corner of it. 
Then he remember' d her and how she 

wept, 6n 

And out of her there came a power 

upon him ; 
And rising on the sudden he said : 

' Eat ! 
I never yet beheld a thing so pale. 



God's curse, it makes me mad to see 

you weep. 
Eat ! Look yourself. Good luck had 

your good man. 
For were I dead who is it would weep 

for me ? 
Sweet lady, never since I first drew 

breath 
Have I beheld a lily like yourself. 
And so there lived some color in your 

cheek, 620 

There is not one among my gentle- 
women 
Were fit to wear your slipper for a 

glove. 
But listen to me, and by me be 

ruled, 
And I will do the thing I have not 

done, 
For ye shall share my earldom with 

me, girl, 
And we will live like two birds in one 

nest, 
And I will fetch you forage from all 

fields, 
For I compel all creatures to my will. ' 

He spoke ; the brawny spearman let 
his cheek 

Bulge with the unswallow'd piece, 
and turning stared ; 630 

While some, whose souls the old ser- 
pent long had drawn 

Down, as the worm draws in the 
wither'd leaf 

And makes it earth, hiss'd each at 
other's ear 

What shall not be recorded — women 
they, 

Women, or what had been those gra- 
cious things, 

But now desired the humbling of 
their best, 

Yea, would have help'd him to it; 
and all at once 

They hated her, who took no thought 
of them, 

But answer'd in low voice, her meek 
head yet 

Drooping, " I pray you of your cour- 
tesy, 640 

He being as he is, to let me be.' 

She spake so low he hardly heard 
her speak, 
But like a mighty patron, satisfied 



GERAINT AND ENID 



45i 



With what himself had done so gra- 
ciously, 

Assumed that she had thank' d him, 
adding, ' Yea, 

Eat and be glad, for I account you 
mine. ' 

She answer'd meekly, ' How should 
I be glad 

Henceforth in all the world at any- 
thing, 

Until my lord arise and look upon 
me?' 

Here the huge earl cried out upon 
her talk, 650 

As all but empty heart and weari- 
ness 

And sickly nothing; suddenly seized 
on her, 

And bare her by main violence to the 
board, 

And thrust the dish before her, cry- 
ing, 'Eat/ 

'No, no/ said Enid, vext, 'I will 

not eat 
Till yonder man upon the bier arise, 
And eat with me/ 'Drink, then/ he 

answer' d. ' Here ! ' — 
And fill'd a horn with wine and held 

it to her, — 

* Lo ! I, myself, when flush' d with 

fight or hot, 

God's curse, with anger — often I my- 
self, 660 

Before I well have drunken, scarce 
can eat ; 

Drink therefore, and the wine will 
change your will/ 

' Not so/ she cried, 'by Heaven, I 

will not drink 
Till my dear lord arise and bid me do 

it, 
And drink with me ; and if he rise no 

more, 
I will not look at wine until I die/ 

At this he turn'd all red and paced 
his hall, 
Now gnaw'd his under, now his upper 

up, 

And coming up close to her, said at 
last: 

* Girl, for I see ye scorn my courtesies, 



Take warning ; yonder man is surely 

dead, 671 

And I compel all creatures to my will. 
Not eat nor drink? And wherefore 

wail for one 
Who put your beauty to this flout 

and scorn 
By dressing it in rags ? Amazed am I, 
Beholding how ye butt against my 

wish, 
That I forbear you thus ; cross me no 

more. 
At least put off to please me this poor 

gown, 
This silken rag, this beggar- woman's 

weed. 
I love that beauty should go beauti- 
fully; 680 
For see ye not my gentlewomen here, 
How gay, how suited to the house of 

one 
Who loves that beauty should go 

beautifully ? 
Rise therefore ; robe yourself in this ; 

obey/ 

He spoke, and one among his gen- 
tlewomen 
Display'd a splendid silk of foreign 

loom, 
Where like a shoaling sea the lovely 

blue 
Play'd into green, and thicker down 

the front 
With jewels than the sward with 

drops of dew, 
When all night long a cloud clings to 

the hill, 690 

And with the dawn ascending lets the 

day 
Strike where it clung; so thickly 

shone the gems. 

But Enid answer'd, harder to be 
moved 

Than hardest tyrants in their day of 
power, 

With lifelong injuries burning una- 
venged, 

And now their hour has come ; and 
Enid said : 

'In this poor gown my dear lord 
found me first, 
And loved me serving in my father's 
hall; 



45 2 



IDYLLS OF THE KING 



In this poor gown I rode with him to 

court, 
And there the Queen array' d me like 

the sun ; 700 

In this poor gown he bade me clothe 

myself, 
When now we rode upon this fatal 

quest 
Of honor, where no honor can be 

gain'd ; 
And this poor gown I will not cast 

aside 
Until himself arise a living man, 
And bid me cast it. I have griefs 

enough ; 
Pray you be gentle, pray you let me 

be. 
I never loved, can never love but him. 
Yea, God, I pray you of your gentle- 
ness, 
He being as he is, to let me be/ 710 

Then strode the brute earl up and 

down his hall, 
And took his russet beard between 

his teeth ; 
Last, coming up quite close, and in 

his mood 
Crying, ' I count it of no more avail, 
Dame, to be gentle than ungentle 

with you ; 
Take my salute,' unknightly with flat 

hand, 
However lightly, smote her on the 

cheek. 

Then Enid, in her utter helplessness, 
And since she thought, 'He had not 

dared to do it, 
Except he surely knew my lord was 

dead,' 720 

Sent forth a sudden sharp and bitter 

cry, 
As of a wild thing taken in the trap, 
Which sees the trapper coming thro' 

the wood. 

This heard Geraint, and grasping 

at his sword, — 
It lay beside him in the hollow shield, — 
Made but a single bound, and with a 

sweep of it 
Shore thro' the swarthy neck, and 

like a ball 
The russet-bearded head roll'd on the 

floor. 



So died Earl Doorm by him he counted 

dead. 
And all the men and women in the hall 
Rose when they saw the dead man 

rise, and fled 73 i 

Yelling as from a spectre, and the two 
Were left alone together, and he said : 

'Enid. I have used you worse than 

that dead man, 
Done you more wrong ; we both have 

undergone 
That trouble which has left me thrice 

your own. 
Henceforward I will rather die than 

doubt. 
And here I lay this penance on myself, 
Not, tho' mine own ears heard you 

yestermorn — 
You thought me sleeping, but I heard 

you say, 74 o 

I heard you say, that you were no 

true wife, 
I swear I will not ask your meaning 

in it. 
I do believe yourself against yourself, 
And will henceforward rather die 

than doubt.' 

And Enid could not say one tender 

word, 
She felt so blunt and stupid at the 

heart. 
She only pray 'd him, ' Fly, they will 

return 
And slay you; fly, your charger is 

wuthout, 
My palfrey lost. ' ' Then, Enid, shall 

you ride 
Behind me.' 'Yea,' said Enid, 'let 

us go.' 750 

And moving out they found the stately 

horse, 
Who now no more a vassal to the 

thief, 
But free to stretch his limbs in lawful 

fight, 
Neigh'd with all gladness as they 

came, and stoop'd 
With a low whinny toward the pair ; 

and she 
Kiss'd the white star upon his noble 

front, 
Glad also ; then Geraint upon the horse 
Mounted, and reach'd a hand, and on 

his foot 



GERAINT AND ENID 



453 




4 He tunrd his face 
And kiss'd her climbing ' 



She set her own and climb'd ; he 

turn'd his face 
And kiss'd her climbing, and she cast 

her arms 760 

About him, and at once they rode 

away. 

And never yet, since high in Para- 
dise 
O'er the four rivers the first roses blew, 
Came purer pleasure unto mortal kind 



Than lived thro' her who in that peril 
ous hour 

Put hand to hand beneath her hus- 
band's heart, 

And felt him hers again. She did not 
weep, 

But o'er her meek eyes came a happy 
mist 

Like that which kept the heart of 
Eden green 

Before the useful trouble of the rain. 



454 



IDYLLS OF THE KING 



Yet not so misty were her meek blue 

eyes 77* 

As not to see before them on the 

path, 
Right in the gateway of the bandit 

hold, 
A knight of Arthur's court, who laid 

his lance 
In rest and made as if to fall upon him. 
Then, fearing for his hurt and loss of 

blood, 
She, with her mind all full of what 

had chanced, 
Shriek'd to the stranger, ' Slay not a 

dead man ! ' 
'The voice of Enid/ said the knight ; 

but she, 
Beholding it was Edyrn, son of Nudd, 
Was moved so much the more, and 

shriek'd again, 781 

1 cousin, slay not him who gave you 

life/ 
And Edyrn moving frankly forward 

spake : 
' My lord Geraint, I greet you with all 

love; 
I took you for a bandit knight of 

Doorm ; 
And fear not, Enid, I should fall upon 

him, 
Who love you, prince, with something 

of the love 
Wherewith we love the Heaven that 

chastens us. 
For once, when I was up so high in 

pride 
That I was halfway down the slope 

to hell, 79° 

By overthrowing me you threw me 

higher. 
Now, made a knight of Arthur's Table 

Round, 
And since I knew this earl when I 

myself 
Was half a bandit in my lawless hour, 
I come the mouthpiece of our King to 

Doorm — 
The King is close behind me — bidding 

him 
Disband himself, and scatter all his 

powers, 
Submit, and hear the judgment of the 

King.' 

' He hears the judgment of the King 
of kings,' 



Cried the wan prince; 'and lo, the 

powers of Doorm 800 

Are scatter' d ! ' and he pointed to the 

field, 
Where, huddled here and there on 

mound and knoll, 
Were men and women staring and 

aghast, 
While some yet fled ; and then he 

plainlier told 
How the huge earl lay slain within his 

hall. 
But when the knight besought him, 

' Follow me, 
Prince, to the camp, and in the King's 

own ear 
Speak what has chanced ; ye surely 

have endured 
Strange chances here alone ; ' that 

other flush' d, 
And hung his head, and halted in 

reply, 810 

Fearing the mild face of the blameless 

King, 
And after madness acted question 

ask'd ; 
Till Edyrn crying, * If ye will not go 
To Arthur, then will Arthur come to 

you/ 
'Enough,' he said, 'I follow,' and 

they went. 
But Enid in their going had two fears, 
One from the bandit scatter'd in the 

field, 
And one from Edyrn. Every now 

and then, 
When Edyrn rein'd his charger at her 

side, 
She shrank a little. In a hollow land, 
From which old fires have broken, 

men may fear 821 

Fresh fire and ruin. He, perceiving, 

said : 

'Fair and dear cousin, you that 
most had cause 

To fear me, fear no longer, I am 
changed. 

Yourself were first the blameless cause 
to make 

My nature's prideful sparkle in the 
blood 

Break into furious flame ; being re- 
pulsed 

By Yniol and yourself, I schemed and 
wrought 



GERAINT AND ENID 



455 



Until I overturn' d him ; then set up — 
With one main purpose ever at my 

heart — 830 

My haughty jousts, and took a para- 
mour ; 
Did her mock-honor as the fairest fair, 
And, toppling over all antagonism, 
So wax'd in pride that I believed my- 
self 
Unconquerable, for I was wellnigh 

mad ; 
And, but for my main purpose in these 

jousts, 
I should have slain your father, seized 

yourself. 
I lived in hope that sometime you 

would come 
To these my lists with him whom best 

you loved, 
And there, poor cousin, with your 

meek blue eyes, 840 

The truest eyes that ever answer' d 

heaven, 
Behold me overturn and trample on 

him. 
Then, had you cried, or knelt, or 

pray'd to me, 
I should not less have kill'd him. And 

you came, — 
But once you came, — and with your 

own true eyes 
Beheld the man you loved — I speak 

as one 
Speaks of a service done him — over- 
throw 
My proud self, and my purpose three 

years old, 
And set his foot upon me, and give 

me life. 
There was I broken down, there was 

I saved ; 850 

Tho' thence I rode all-shamed, hating 

the life 
He gave me, meaning to be rid of it. 
And all the penance the Queen laid 

upon me 
Was but to rest awhile within her 

court ; 
Where first as sullen as a beast new- 
caged, 
And waiting to be treated like a wolf, 
Because I knew my deeds were known, 

I found, 
Instead of scornful pity or pure 

scorn, 
Such fine reserve and noble reticence, 



Manners so kind, yet stately, such a 

grace 860 

Of tenderest courtesy, that I began 
To glance behind me at my former 

life, 
And find that it had been the wolf's 

indeed. 
And oft I talk'd with Dubric, the high 

saint, 
Who, with mild heat of holy oratory, 
Subdued me somewhat to that gentle- 
ness 
Which, when it weds with manhood, 

makes a man. 
And you were often there about the 

Queen, 
But saw me not, or mark'd not if you 

saw ; 
Nor did I care or dare to speak with 

you, 870 

But kept myself aloof till I was 

changed ; 
And fear not, cousin, I am changed 

indeed.' 

He spoke, and Enid easily believed, 

Like simple noble natures, credulous 

Of what they long for, good in friend 
or foe, 

There most in those who most have 
done them ill. 

And when they reach'd the camp the 
King himself 

Advanced to greet them, and behold- 
ing her 

Tho' pale, yet happy, ask'd her not a 
word, 

But went apart with Edyrn, whom he 
held 880 

In converse for a little, and return'd, 

And, gravely smiling, lifted her from 
horse, 

And kiss'd her with all pureness, bro- 
ther-like, 

And show'd an empty tent allotted her, 

And glancing for a minute, till he saw 
her 

Pass into it, turn'd to the prince, and 
said : 

' Prince, when of late ye pray'd me 

for my leave 
To move to your own land and there 

defend 
Your marches, I was prick'd with 

some reproof, 



45 6 



IDYLLS OF THE KING 



As one that let foul wrong stagnate 

and be, 890 

By having look'd too much thro' alien 

eyes, 
And wrought too long with delegated 

hands, 
Not used mine own ; but now behold 

me come 
To cleanse this common sewer of all 

my realm, 
With Edyrn and with others. Have 

ye look'd 
At Edyrn ? have ye seen how nobly 

changed ? 
This work of his is great and wonder- 
ful. 
His very face with change of heart is 

changed. 
The world will not believe a man re- 
pents ; 
And this wise world of ours is mainly 

right. 900 

Full seldom doth a man repent, or use 
Both grace and will to .pick the vicious 

quitch 
Of blood and custom wholly out of 

him, 
And make all clean, and plant himself 

afresh, 
Edyrn has done it, weeding all his 

heart 
As I will weed this land before I go. 
I, therefore, made him of our Table 

Round, 
Not rashly, but have proved him 

every way 
One of our noblest, our most valorous, 
Sanest and most obedient ; and indeed 
This work of Edyrn, wrought upon 

himself 911 

After a life of violence, seems to me 
A thousand-fold more great and won- 
derful 
Than if some knight of mine, risking 

his life, 
My subject with my subjects under 

him, 
Should make an onslaught single on a 

realm 
Of robbers, tho' he slew them one by 

one, 
And were himself nigh wounded to 

the death.' 

So spake the King ; low bow'd the 
prince, and felt 



His work was neither great nor won- 
derful, 920 
And past to Enid's tent ; and thither 

came 
The King's own leech to look into his 

hurt ; 
And Enid tended on him there ; and 

there 
Her constant motion round him, and 

the breath 
Of her sweet tendance hovering over 

him, 
Fill'd all the genial courses of his 

blood 
With deeper and with ever deeper 

love, 
As the Southwest that blowing Bala 

lake 
Fills all the sacred Dee. So past the 

days. 

But while Geraint lay healing of 
his hurt, 930 

The blameless King went forth and 
cast his eyes 

On each of all whom Uther left in 
charge 

Long since, to guard the justice of the 
King. 

He look'd and found them wanting ; 
and as now 

Men weed the White Horse on the 
Berkshire hills, 

To keep him bright and clean as here- 
tofore, 

He rooted out the slothful officer 

Or guilty, which for bribe had wink'd 
at wrong, 

And in their chairs set up a stronger 
race 

With hearts and hands, and sent a 
thousand men 940 

To till the wastes, and moving every- 
where 

Clear' d the dark places and let in the 
law, 

And broke the bandit holds and 
cleansed the land. 

Then, when Geraint was whole 
again, they past 

With Arthur to Caerleon upon Usk. 

There the great Queen once more em- 
braced her friend, 

And clothed her in apparel like the 
day. 



BALIN AND BALAN 



457 



And tho' Geraint could never take 

again 
That comfort from their converse 

which he took 
Before the Queen's fair name was 

breathed upon, 950 

He rested well content that all was 

well. 
Thence after tarrying for a space they 

rode, 
And fifty knights rode with them to 

the shores 
Of Severn, and they past to their own 

land. 
And there he kept the justice of the 

King 
So vigorously yet mildly that all 

hearts 
Applauded, and the spiteful whisper 

died ; 
And being ever foremost in the chase, 
And victor at the tilt and tournament, 
They call'd him the great prince and 

man of men. 960 

But Enid, whom her ladies loved to 

call 
Enid the Fair, a grateful people 

named 
Enid the Good ; and in tlieir halls 

arose 
The cry of children, Enids and Ge- 

raints 
Of times to be ; nor did he doubt her 

more, 
But rested in her fealty till he crown' d 
A happy life with a fair death, and 

fell 
Against the heathen of the Northern 

Sea 
In battle, fighting for the blameless 

King. 



BALIN AND BALAN 

Pellam the king, who held and lost 

with Lot 
In that first war ^ and had his realm 

restored 
But render'd tributary, fail'd of late 
To send his tribute ; wherefore Arthur 

call'd 
His treasurer, one of many years, and 

spake : 
4 Go thou with him and him and bring 

it to us, 



Lest we should set one truer on his 

throne. 
Man's word is God in man.' 

His baron said : 

1 We go, but harken : there be two 
strange knights 

Who sit near Camelot at a fountain 
side 10 

A mile beneath the forest, challen- 
ging 

And overthrowing every knight who 
comes. 

Wilt thou I undertake them as we 
pass, 

And send them to thee ? ' 

Arthur laugh' d upon him : 
1 Old friend, too old to be so young, 

depart, 
Delay not thou for aught, but let them 

sit, 
Until they find a lustier than them- 
selves.' 

So these departed. Early, one fair 
dawn, 

The light-wing'd spirit of his youth 
. return' d 

On Arthur's heart ; he arm'd himself 
and went, 20 

So coming to the fountain-side be- 
held 

Balin and Balan sitting statue-like, 

Brethren, to right and left the spring, 
that down, 

From underneath a plume of lady- 
fern, 

Sang, and the sand danced at the bot- 
tom of it. 

And on the right of Balin Balin's 
horse 

Was fast beside an alder, on the 
left 

Of Balan Balan' s near a poplar-tree. 

4 Fair sirs,' said Arthur, 'wherefore 
sit ye here?' 

Balin and Balan answer d : ' For the 
sake 30 

Of glory ; we be mightier men than 
all 

In Arthur's court ; that also have we 
proved, 

For whatsoever knight against us 
came 

Or I or he have easily overthrown.' 



458 



IDYLLS OF THE KING 



'I too,' said Arthur, 'am of Arthur's 
hall, 

But rather proven in his Paynini wars 

Than famous jousts; but see, or 
proven or not, 

Whether me likewise ye can over- 
throw.' 

And Arthur lightly smote the brethren 
down, 

And lightly so return'd, and no man 
knew. 40 

Then Balin rose, and Balan, and be- 
side 
The carolling water set themselves 

again, 
And spake no word until the shadow 

turn'd ; 
When from the fringe of coppice 

round them burst 
A spangled pursuivant, and crying, 

1 Sirs, 
Rise, follow ! ye be sent for by the 

King/ 
They follow' d ; whom when Arthur 

seeing ask'd, 
' Tell me your names ; why sat ye by 

the well ? ' 
Balin the stillness of a minute broke 
Saying, 'An unmelodious name to 

thee, so 

Balin, "the Savage" — that addition 

thine — 
My brother and my better, this man 

here, 
Balan. I smote upon the naked skull 
A thrall of thine in open hall ; my 

hand 
Was gauntleted, half slew him, for I 

heard 
He had spoken evil of me ; thy just 

wrath 
Sent me a three-years' exile from 

thine eyes. 
I have not lived my life delight- 

somely ; 
For I that did that violence to thy 

thrall, 
Had often wrought some fury on my- 
self, 60 
Saving for Balan. Those three king- 
less years 
Have past — were wormwood-bitter 

to me. King, 
Methought that if we sat beside the 

well, 



And hurl'd to ground what knight so- 
ever spurr'd 
Against us, thou would'st take me 

gladlier back, 
And make, as ten times worthier to be 

thine 
Than twenty Balins, Balan knight. I 

have said. 
Not so — not all. A man of thine to- 
day 
Abash'd us both, and brake my boast. 

Thy will ? ' 
Said Arthur : ' Thou hast ever spoken 

truth ; 70 

Thy too fierce manhood would not let 

thee lie. 
Rise, my true knight. As children 

learn, be thou 
Wiser for falling ! walk with me, and 

move 
To music with thine Order and the 

King. 
Thy chair, a grief to all the brethren, 

stands 
Vacant, but thou retake it, mine 

again!' 

Thereafter, when Sir Balin enter' d 
hall, 

The lost one found was greeted as in 
heaven 

With joy that blazed itself in wood- 
land wealth 

Of leaf, and gayest garlandage of 
flowers, 80 

Along the walls and down the board ; 
they sat, 

And cup clash'd cup ; they drank, 
and some one sang, 

Sweet-voiced, a song of welcome, 
whereupon 

Their common shout in chorus, mount- 
ing, made 

Those banners of twelve battles over- 
head 

Stir as they stirr'd of old, when Ar- 
thur's host 

Proclaim'd him victor and the day 
was won. 

Then Balan added to their Order 
lived 

A wealthier life than heretofore with 
these 

And Balin, till their embassage re- 
turn'd. 90 






BALIN AND BALAN 



459 



' Sir King,' they brought report, 

' we hardly found, 
So bush'd about it is with gloom, the 

hall 
Of him to whom ye sent us, Pellam, 

once 
A Christless foe of thine as ever dash'd 
Horse against horse ; but seeing that 

thy realm 
Hath prosper'd in the name of Christ, 

the King 
Took, as in rival heat, to holy things, 
And finds himself descended from the 

Saint 
Arimathsean Joseph, him who first 
Brought the great faith to Britain over 

seas. ioo 

He boasts his life as purer than thine 

own ; 
Eats scarce enow to keep his pulse 

a-beat ; 
Hath push'd aside his faithful wife, 

nor lets 
Or dame or damsel enter at his gates 
Lest he should be polluted. This gray 

king 
Show'd us a shrine wherein were won- 
ders — yea, 
Rich arks with priceless bones of mar- 
tyrdom, 
Thorns of the crown and shivers of 

the cross, 
And therewithal, — for thus he told 

us, — brought 
By holy Joseph hither, that same spear 
Wherewith the Roman pierced the side 

of Christ. in 

He much amazed us ; after, when we 

sought 
The tribute, answer'd, "I have quite 

foregone 
All matters of this world. Garlon, 

mine heir, 
Of him demand it," Which this Garlon 

gave 
With much ado, railing at thine and 

thee. 

'But when we left, in those deep 

woods we found 
A knight of thine spear-stricken from 

behind, 
Dead, whom we buried ; more than 

one of us 
Cried out on Garlon, but a woodman 

there 120 



Reported of some demon in the woods 
Was once a man, who, driven by evil 

tongues 
From all his fellows, lived alone, and 

came 
To learn black magic, and to hate his 

kind 
With such a hate that when he died 

his soul 
Became a fiend, which, as the man in 

life 
Was wounded by blind tongues he saw 

not whence, 
Strikes from behind. This woodman 

show'd the cave 
From which he sallies and wherein he 

dwelt. 
We saw the hoof -print of a horse, no 

more/ 130 

Then Arthur, ' Let who goes before 

me see 
He do not fall behind me. Foully slain 
And villainously ! who will hunt for 

me 
This demon of the woods ? ' Said 

Balan, 'IP 
So claim' d the quest and rode away, 

but first, 
Embracing Balin : ' Good my brother, 

hear! 
Let not thy moods prevail when I am 

gone 
Who used to lay them ! hold them 

outer fiends, 
Who leap at thee to tear thee ; shake 

them aside, 
Dreams ruling when wit sleeps ! yea, 

but to dream 140 

That any of these would wrong thee 

wrongs thyself. 
Witness their flowery welcome. Bound 

are they 
To speak no evil. Truly, save for 

fears, 
My fears for thee, so rich a fellowship 
Would make me wholly blest ; thou 

one of them, 
Be one indeed. Consider them, and all 
Their bearing in their common bond 

of love, 
No more of hatred than in heaven itself, 
No more of jealousy than in Paradise/ 

So Balan warn'd, and went ; Balin 
remain'd, 15° 



460 



IDYLLS OF THE KING 



Who — for but three brief moons had 
glanced away 

From being knighted till he smote the 
thrall, 

And faded from the presence into years 

Of exile — now would strictlier set 
himself 

To learn what Arthur meant by cour- 
tesy, 

Manhood, and knighthood ; wherefore 
hover' d round 

Lancelot, but when he mark'd his high 
sweet smile 

In passing, and a transitory word 

Make knight or churl or child or 
damsel seem 

From being smiled at happier in them- 
selves — 160 

Sigh'd, as a boy, lame-born beneath a 
height 

That glooms his valley, sighs to see 
the peak 

Sun-flush' d or touch at night the north- 
ern star ; 

For one from out his village lately 
climb' d 

And brought report of azure lands and 
fair, 

Far seen to left and right ; and he 
himself 

Hath hardly scaled with help a hun- 
dred feet 

Up from the base. So Balin, marvel- 
ling oft 

How far beyond him Lancelot seem'd 
to move, 

Groan'd, and at times would mutter: 
1 These be gifts, 170 

Born with the blood, not learnable, 
divine, 

Beyond my reach. Well had I 
f oughten — well — 

In those fierce wars, struck hard — 
and had I crown' d 

With my slain self the heaps of whom 
I slew — 

So — better ! — But this worship of the 
Queen, 

That honor too wherein she holds him 
— this, 

This was the sunshine that hath given 

the man 
A growth, a name that branches o'er 

the rest, 
And strength against all odds, and 
what the King 



So prizes — overprizes — gentleness. 
Her likewise would I worship an I 

might. 181 

I never can be close with her, as he 
That brought her hither. Shall I pray 

the King 
To let me bear some token of his Queen 
Whereon to gaze, remembering her — 

forget 
My heats and violences ? live afresh ? 
What if the Queen disdain* d to grant 

it! nay, 
Being so stately-gentle, would she 

make 
My darkness blackness ? and with how 

sweet grace 
She greeted my return ! Bold will I 

be — 190 

Some goodly cognizance of Guinevere, 
In lieu of this rough beast upon my 

shield, 
Langued gules, and tooth' d with grin- 
ning savagery.' 

And Arthur, when Sir Balin sought 

him, said, 
'What wilt thou bear?' Balin was 

bold, and ask'd 
To bear her own crown-royal upon 

shield, 
Whereat she smiled and turn'd her to 

the King, 
Who answer'd : ' Thou shalt put the 

crown to use. 
The crown is but the shadow of the 

king, 
And this a shadow's shadow, let him 

have it, 200 

So this will help him of his violences ! ' 
1 No shadow, ' said Sir Balin, ' O my 

Queen, 
But light to me ! no shadow, O my 

King, 
But golden earnest of a gentler life ! ' 

So Balin bare the crown, and all the 

knights 
Approved him, and the Queen ; and all 

the world 
Made music, and he felt his being 

move 
In music with his Order and the King. 

The nightingale, full-toned in mid- 
dle May, 
Hath ever and anon a note so thin 210 



BALIN AND BALAN 



461 



It seems another voice in other groves ; 

Thus, after some quick burst of sud- 
den wrath, 

The music in him seem'd to change 
and grow 

Faint and far-off. 

And once he saw the thrall 

His passion half had gauntleted to 
death, 

That causer of his banishment and 
shame, 

Smile at him, as he deem'd, presump- 
tuously. 

His arm half rose to strike again, but 
fell; 

The memory of that cognizance on 
shield 

Weighted it down, but in himself he 
moan'd : 220 

1 Too high this mount of Camelot for 

me; 
These high-set courtesies are not for 

me. 
Shall I not rather prove the worse for 

these ? 
Fierier and stormier from restraining, 

break 
Into some madness even before the 

Queen ? ' 

Thus, as a hearth lit in a mountain 

home, 
And glancing on the window, when 

the gloom 
Of twilight deepens round it, seems a 

flame 
That rages in the woodland far below, 
So when his moods were darken'd, 

court and king 230 

And all the kindly warmth of Arthur's 

hall 
Shadow'd an angry distance ; yet he 

strove 
To learn the graces of their Table, 

fought 
Hard with himself, and seem'd at 

length in peace. 

Then chanced, one morning, that 

Sir Balin sat 
Close-bower' d in that garden nigh the 

hall. 
A walk of roses ran from door to 

door, 
A walk of lilies crost it to the bower ; 



And down that range of roses the great 

Queen 
Came with slow steps, the morning on 

her face ; 24 o 

And all in shadow from the counter 

door 
Sir Lancelot as to meet her, then at 

once, 
As if he saw not, glanced aside, and 

paced 
The long white walk of lilies toward 

the bower. 
Follow'd the Queen; Sir Balin heard 

her ' Prince, 
Art thou so little loyal to thy Queen 
As pass without good morrow to thy 

Queen ? ' 
To whom Sir Lancelot with his eyes 

on earth, 
'Fain would I still be loyal to the 

Queen/ 
' Yea, so,' she said; 'but so to pass 

me by — 250 

So loyal scarce is loyal to thyself, 
Whom all men rate the king of cour- 
tesy. 
Let be; ye stand, fair lord, as in a 

dream.' 

Then Lancelot with his hand among 

the flowers : 
' Yea — for a dream. Last night me- 

thought I saw 
That maiden Saint who stands with 

lily in hand 
In yonder shrine. All round her prest 

the dark, 
And all the light upon her silver 

face 
Flow'd from the spiritual lily that she 

held. 
Lo! these her emblems drew mine 

eyes — away ; 260 

For see, how perfect-pure ! As light 

a flush 
As hardly tints the blossom of the 

quince 
Would mar their charm of stainless 

maidenhood. ' 

' Sweeter to me/ she said, ' this gar- 
den rose 

Deep-hued and many-folded ! sweeter 
still 

The wild-wood hyacinth and the bloom 
of May! 



462 



IDYLLS OF THE KING 



Prince, we have ridden before among 

the flowers 
In those fair days — not all as cool as 

these, * 

Tho' season-earlier. Art thou sad ? or 

sick? 
Our noble King will send thee his own 

leech — 270 

Sick ? or for any matter anger' d at 

me ?' 

Then Lancelot lifted his large eyes ; 

they dwelt 
Deep-tranced on hers, and could not 

fall. Her hue 
Changed at his gaze ; so turning side 

by side 
They past, and Balin started from his 

bower. 

'Queen? subject? but I see not 

what I see. 
Damsel and lover? hear not what I 

hear. 
My father hath begotten me in his 

wrath. 
I suffer from the things before me, 

know, 
Learn nothing ; am not worthy to be 

knight — 280 

A churl, a clown ! ' and in him gloom 

on gloom 
Deepen' d ; he sharply caught his 

lance and shield, 
Nor stay'd to crave permission of the 

King, 
But mad for strange adventure, dash'd 

away. 

He took the selfsame track as Balan, 

saw 
The fountain where they sat together, 

sigh'd, 
' Was I not better there with him ? ' 

and rode 
The skyless woods, but under open 

blue 
Came on the hoar -head woodman at a 

bough 
Wearily hewing. ' Churl, thine axe ! ' 

he cried, 290 

Descended, and disjointed it at a blow ; 
To whom the woodman utter'd wonder- 

ingly, 
'Lord, thou couldst lay the devil of 

these woods 



If arm of flesh could lay him ! ' Balin 

cried, 
1 Him, or the viler devil who plays his 

part ; 
To lay that devil would lay the devil 

in me.' 
'Nay,' said the churl, 'our devil is a 

truth, 
I saw the flash of him but yester-even. 
And some do say that our Sir Garlon 

too 
Hath learn'd black magic, and to ride 

unseen. 300 

Look to the cave.' But Balin answer'd 

him, 
'Old fabler, these be fancies of the 

churl ; 
Look to thy woodcraft,' and so leaving 

him, 
Now with slack rein and careless of 

himself, 
Now with dug spur and raving at him- 
self, 
Now with droopt brow down the long 

glades he rode ; 
So mark'd not on his right a cavern- 
chasm 
Yawn over darkness, where, nor far 

within, 
The whole day died, but, dying, 

gleamed on rocks 
Roof -pendent, sharp ; and others from 

the floor, 310 

Tusklike, arising, made that mouth of 

night 
Whereout the demon issued up from 

hell. 
He mark'd not this, but, blind and 

deaf to all 
Save that chain' d rage which ever 

yelpt within, 
Past eastward from the falling sun. 

At once 
He felt the hollow-beaten mosses thud 
And tremble, and then the shadow of 

a spear, 
Shot from behind him, ran along the 

ground. 
Sideways he started from the path, 

and saw, 
With pointed lance as if to pierce, a 

shape, 320 

A light of armor by him flash, and 

pass 
And vanish in the woods ; and f ollow'd 

this, 






BALIN AND BALAN 



463 



But all so blind in rage that unawares 
He burst his lance against a forest 

bough, 
Dishorsed himself, and rose again, and 

fled 
Far, till the castle of a king, the hall 
Of Pellam, lichen-bearded, grayly 

draped 
With streaming grass, appear'd, low- 
built but strong ; 
The ruinous donjon as a knoll of moss, 
The battlement overtopt with ivy- 
tods, 330 
A home of bats, in every tower an owl. 

Then spake the men of Pellam cry- 
ing, ' Lord, 
Why wear ye this crown-royal upon 

shield ? ' 
Said Balin, 'For the fairest and the 

best 
Of ladies living gave me this to bear.' 
So stall'd his horse, and strode across 

the court, 
But found the greetings both of knight 

and king 
Faint in the low dark hall of banquet. 

Leaves 
Laid their green faces flat against the 

panes, 
Sprays grated, and the canker' d 

boughs without 340 

Whined in the wood ; for all was 

hush'd within, 
Till when at feast Sir Garlon likewise 

ask'd, 
1 Why wear ye that crown-royal ? ' 

Balin said, 
* The Queen we worship, Lancelot, I, 

and all, 
As fairest, best, and purest, granted 

me 
To bear it ! ' Such a sound — for 

Arthur's knights 
Were hated strangers in the hall — as 

makes 
The white swan-mother, sitting, when 

she hears 
A strange knee rustle thro' her secret 

reeds, 
Made Garlon, hissing ; then he sourly 

smiled : 350 

1 Fairest I grant her — I have seen ; 

but best, 
Best, purest ? thou from Arthur's hall, 

and yet 



So simple ! hast thou eyes, or if, are 

these 
So far besotted that they fail to see 
This fair wife-worship cloaks a secret 

shame ? 
Truly, ye men of Arthur be but babes.' 

A goblet on the board by Balin, 

boss'd 
With holy Joseph's legend, on his 

right 
Stood, all of massiest bronze. One 

side had sea 
And ship and sail and angels blowing 

on it ; 360 

And one was rough with wattling, and 

the walls 
Of that low church he built at Glaston- 
bury. 
This Balin graspt, but while in act to 

hurl, 
Thro' memory of that token on the 

shield 
Relax'd his hold. 'I will be gentle/ 

he thought, 
' And passing gentle ; ' caught his 

hand away, 
Then fiercely to Sir Garlon : ' Eyes 

have I 
That saw to-day the shadow of a spear, 
Shot from behind me, run along the 

ground ; 
Eyes too that long have watch'd how 

Lancelot draws 370 

From homage to the best and purest, 

might, 
Name, manhood, and a grace, but 

scantly thine 
Who, sitting in thine own hall, canst 

endure 
To mouth so huge a foulness — to thy 

guest, 
Me, me of Arthur's Table. Felon talk ! 
Let be ! no more ! ' 

But not the less by night 

The scorn of Garlon, poisoning all his 
rest, 

Stung him in dreams. At length, and 
dim thro' leaves 

Blinkt the white morn, sprays grated, 
and old boughs 

Whined in the wood. He rose, de- 
scended, met 380 

The scorner in the castle court, and 
fain, 



464 



IDYLLS OF THE KING 



For hate and loathing, would have 
past him by ; 

But when Sir Garlon utter' d niocking- 
wise, 

* What, wear ye still that same crown- 
scandalous ? ' 

His countenance blacken'd, and his 
forehead veins 

Bloated and branch' d ; and tearing out 
of sheath 

The brand, Sir Balin with a fiery, ' Ha ! 

So thou be shadow, here I make thee 
ghost/ 

Hard upon helm smote him, and the 
blade flew 

Splintering in six, and clinkt upon the 
stones. 390 

Then Garlon, reeling slowly back- 
ward, fell, 

And Balin by the banneret of his helm 

Dragg'd him, and struck, but from 
the castle a cry 

Sounded across the court, and — men- 
at-arms, 

A score with pointed lances, making 
at him — 

He dash'd the pummel at the foremost 
face, 

Beneath a low door dipt, and made 
his feet 

Wings thro' a glimmering gallery, till 
he mark'd 

The portal of King Pellam's chapel 
wide 

And inward to the wall ; he stept be- 
hind ; 400 

Thence in a moment heard them pass 
like wolves 

Howling; but while he stared about 
the shrine, 

In which he scarce could spy the 
Christ for Saints, 

Beheld before a golden altar lie 

The longest lance his eyes had ever 
seen, 

Point-painted red ; and seizing there- 
upon 

Push'd thro' an open casement down, 
lean'd on it, 

Leapt in a semicircle, and lit on earth ; 

Then hand at ear, and barkening from 
what side 

The blindfold rummage buried in the 
walls 410 

Might echo, ran the counter path, and 
found 



His charger, mounted on him and 

away. 
An arrow whizz'd to the right, one to 

the left, 
One overhead ; and Pellam's feeble cry, 
' Stay, stay him ! he defileth heavenly 

things 
With earthly uses ! ' made him quickly 

dive 
Beneath the boughs, and race thro' 

many a mile 
Of dense and open, till his goodly 

horse, 
Arising wearily at a fallen oak, 
Stumbled headlong, and cast him face 

to ground. 420 

Half -wroth he had not ended, but 

all glad, 
Knightlike, to find his charger yet un- 

lamed, 
Sir Balin drew the shield from off his 

neck, 
Stared at the priceless cognizance, and 

thought, 
1 1 have shamed thee so that now thou 

shamest me, 
Thee will I bear no more,' high on a 

branch 
Hung it, and turn'd aside into the 

w^oods, 
And there in gloom cast himself all 

along, 
Moaning, 'My violences, my vio- 
lences ! ' 

But now the wholesome music of 

the wood 430 

Was dumb'd by one from out the hall 

of Mark, 
A damsel - errant, warbling, as she 

rode 
The woodland alleys, Vivien, with her 

squire. 



'The fire of heaven has kill'd the barren 
cold, 
And kindled all the plain and all the wold. 
The new leaf ever pushes off the old. 
The fire of heaven is not the flame of hell. 

1 Old priest, who mumble worship in 

your quire — 
Old monk and nun, ye scorn the world's 

desire, 
Yet in your frosty cells ye feel the fire ! 440 
The fire of heaven is not the flame of hell. 






BALIN AND BALAN 



465 






1 The fire of heaven is on the dusty ways. 
The wayside blossoms open to the blaze. 
The whole wood-world is one full peal of 

praise. 
The fire of heaven is not the flame of hell. 

1 The fire of heaven is lord of all things 

good, 
And starve not thou this fire within thy 

blood, 
But follow Vivien thro' the fiery flood ! 
The fire of heaven is not the flame of hell ! ' 

Then turning to her squire, ' This 
fire of heaven, 450 

This old sun-worship, boy, will rise 
again, 

And beat the Cross to earth, and break 
the King 

And all his Table.' 

Then they reach' d a glade, 

Where under one long lane of cloud- 
less air 

Before another wood, the royal crown 

Sparkled, and swaying upon a restless 
elm 

Drew the vague glance of Vivien and 
her squire. 

Amazed were these ; ' Lo there/ she 
cried — ' a crown — 

Borne by some high lord-prince of Ar- 
thur's hall, 

And there a horse ! the rider ? where 
is he ? 460 

See, yonder lies one dead within the 
wood. 

Not dead ; he stirs ! — but sleeping. I 
will speak. 

Hail, royal knight, we break on thy 
sweet rest, 

Not, doubtless, all unearn'd by noble 
deeds. 

But bounden art thou, if from Ar- 
thur's hall, 

To help the weak. Behold, I fly from 
shame, 

A lustful king, who sought to win my 
love 

Thro' evil ways. The knight with 
whom I rode 

Hath suffer' d misadventure, and my 
squire 

Hath in him small defence ; but thou, 
Sir Prince, 470 

Wilt surely guide me to the warrior 
King, 



Arthur the blameless, pure as any 

maid, 
To get me shelter for my maidenhood. 
I charge thee by that crown upon thy 

shield, 
And by the great Queen's name, arise 

and hence.' 

And Balin rose : ' Thither no more ! 
nor prince 

Nor knight am I, but one that hath 
defamed 

The cognizance she gave me. Here I 
dwell 

Savage among the savage woods, here 
die — 

Die — let the wolves' black maws en- 
sepulchre 480 

Their brother beast, whose anger was 
his lord ! 

me, that such a name as Guinevere's, 
Which our high Lancelot hath so lifted 

up, 
And been thereby uplifted, should 

thro' me, 
My violence, and my villainy, come to 

shame ! ' 

Thereat she suddenly laugh' d and 

shrill, anon 
Sigh'd all as suddenly. Said Balin to 

her: 
'Is this thy courtesy — to mock me, 

ha? 
Hence, for I will not with thee.' Again 

she sigh'd : 

1 Pardon, sweet lord ! we maidens 

often laugh 49 o 

When sick at heart, when rather we 

should weep. 
I knew thee wrong'd. I brake upon 

thy rest, 
And now full loth am I to break thy 

dream, 
But thou art man, and canst abide a 

truth, 
Tho' bitter. Hither, boy — and mark 

me well. 
Dost thou remember at Caerleon 

once — 
A year ago — nay, then I love thee 

not — 
Ay, thou rememberest well — one 

summer dawn — 
By the great tower — Caerleon upon 

Usk — 



4 66 



IDYLLS OF THE KING 



Nay, truly we were hidden — this fair 
lord, 500 

The flower of all their vestal knight- 
hood, knelt 

In amorous homage — knelt — what 
else ? — O, ay, 

Knelt, and drew down from out his 
nightblack hair 

And mumbled that white hand whose 
ring'd caress 

Had wander'd from her own King's 
golden head, 

And lost itself in darkness, till she 
cried — 

I thought the great tower would crash 
down on both — 

"Rise, my sweet King, and kiss me 
on the lips, 

Thou art my King." This lad, whose 
lightest word 

Is mere white truth in simple naked- 
ness, 510 

Saw them embrace ; he reddens, can- 
not speak, 

So bashful, he ! but all the maiden 
Saints, 

The deathless mother-maidenhood of 
heaven, 

Cry out upon her. Up then, ride 
with me ! 

Talk not of shame ! thou canst not, 
an thou wouldst, 

Do these more shame than these have 
done themselves. ' 

She lied with ease ; but horror- 
stricken he, 

Remembering that dark bower at 
Camelot, 

Breathed in a dismal whisper, 'It is 
truth.' 

Sunnily she smiled : ' And even in 
this lone wood, 520 

Sweet lord, ye do right well to whis- 
per this. 

Fools prate, and perish traitors. 
Woods have tongues, . 

As walls have ears ; but thou shalt 
go with me, 

And we will speak at first exceeding 
low. 

Meet is it the good King be not de- 
ceived. 

See now, I set thee high on vantage 
ground, 



From whence to watch the time, and 

eagle-like 
Stoop at thy will on Lancelot and the 

Queen.' 

She ceased ; his evil spirit upon 

him leapt, 
He ground his teeth together, sprang 

with a yell, 530 

Tore from the branch and cast on 

earth the shield, 
Drove his mail'd heel athwart the 

royal crown, 
Stampt all into defacement, hurl'd it 

from him 
Among the forest weeds, and cursed 

the tale, 
The told-of, and the teller. 

That weird yell, 
Unearthlier than all shriek of bird or 

beast, 
Thrill'd thro' the woods ; and Balan 

lurking there — 
His quest was unaccomplished — heard 

and thought 
'The scream of that wood-devil I 

came to quell ! ' 
Then nearing : * Lo ! he hath slain 

some brother-knight, 540 

And tramples on the goodly shield to 

show 
His loathing of our Order and the 

Queen. 
My quest, meseems, is here. Or devil 

or man, 
Guard thou thine head.' Sir Balan 

spake not a word, 
But snatch' d a sudden buckler from 

the squire, 
And vaulted on his horse, and so they 

crash' d 
In onset, and King Pellam's holy spear, 
Reputed to be red with sinless blood, 
Redden'd at once with sinful, for the 

point 
Across the maiden shield of Balan 

prick' d 550 

The hauberk to the flesh ; and Balm s 

horse 
Was wearied to the death, and, when 

they clash' d, 
Rolling back upon Balin, crush'd the 

man 
Inward, and either fell and swoon'd 

away. 



BALIN AND BALAN 



467 



Then to her squire mutter'd the 

damsel : ' Fools ! 
This fellow hath wrought some foul- 
ness with his Queen ; 
Else never had he borne her crown, 

nor raved 
And thus f oam'd over at a rival name. 
But thou, Sir Chick, that scarce hast 

broken shell, 
Art yet half -yolk, not even come to 

down — 560 

Who never sawest Caerleon upon 

Usk — 
And yet hast often pleaded for my 

love — 
See what I see, be thou where I have 

been, 
Or else, Sir Chick — dismount and 

loose their casques ; 
I fain would know what manner of 

men they be.' 
And when the squire had loosed them, 

'Goodly !— look! 
They might have cropt the myriad 

flower of May, 
And butt each other here, like brain- 
less bulls, 
Dead for one heifer ! ' 

Then the gentle squire : 
'I hold them happy, so they died for 

love ; 570 

And, Vivien, tho' ye beat me like 

your dog, 
I too could die, as now I live, for 

thee.' 

'Live on, Sir Boy,' she cried; 'I 

better prize 
The living dog than the dead lion. 

Away ! 
I cannot brook to gaze upon the dead.' 
Then leapt her palfrey o'er the fallen 

oak, 
And bounding forward, ' Leave them 

to the wolves.' 

But when their foreheads felt the 
cooling air, 

Balin first woke, and seeing that true 
face, 

Familiar up from cradle-time, so wan, 

Crawl'd slowly with low moans to 
where he lay, 581 

And on his dying brother cast him- 
self 



Dying ; and he lifted faint eyes ; he 
felt 

One near him ; all at once they found 
the world, 

Staring wild-wide ; then with a child- 
like wail, 

And drawing down the dim disastrous 
brow 

That o'er him hung, he kiss'd it, 
moan'd, and spake : 

' O Balin, Balin, I that fain had 

died 
To save thy life, have brought thee to 

thy death. 
Why had ye not the shield I knew ? 

and why 590 

Trampled ye thus on that which bare 

the crown ? ' 

Then Balin told him brokenly and 
in gasps 
All that had chanced, and Balan 
moan'd again : 

' Brother, I dwelt a day in Pellam's 

hall; 
This Garlon mock'd me, but I heeded 

not. 
And one said, ''Eat in peace! a liar 

is he, 
And hates thee for the tribute!" 

This good knight 
Told me that twice a wanton damsel 

came, 
And sought for Garlon at the castle- 
gates, 
Whom Pellam drove away with holy 

heat. 600 

I well believe this damsel, and the 

one 
Who stood beside thee even now, the 

same. 
"She dwells among the woods," he 

said, ' ' and meets 
And dallies with him in the Mouth of 

Hell." 
Foul are their lives, foul are their 

lips ; they lied. 
Pure as our own true mother is our 

Queen.' 

'O brother,' answer'd Balin, 'woe 
is me ! 
My madness all thy life has been thy 
doom, 



4 68 



IDYLLS OF THE KING 



Thy curse, and darken'd all thy day ; 

and now 
The night has come. I scarce can 

see thee now. 610 

Good night ! for we shall never bid 

again 
Good morrow — Dark my doom was 

here, and dark 
It will be there. I see thee now no 

more. 
I would not mine again should darken 

thine ; 
Good night, true brother.' 

Balan answer'd low, 
1 Good night, true brother, here ! good 

morrow there ! 
We two were born together, and we 

die 
Together by one doom : ' and while 

he spoke 
Closed his death-drowsing eyes, and 

slept the sleep 
With Balin, either lock'd in either' s 

arm. 620 

MERLIN AND VIVIEN 

A storm was coming, but the winds 

were still, 
And in the wild woods of Broceliande, 
Before an oak, so hollow, huge, and 

old 
It look'd a tower of ivied masonwork, 
At Merlin's feet the wily Vivien lay. 

For he that always bare in bitter 
grudge 

The slights of Arthur and his Table, 
Mark 

The Cornish King, had heard a wan- 
dering voice, 

A minstrel of Caerleon by strong 
storm 

Blown into shelter at Tintagil, say 10 

That out of naked knight-like purity 

Sir Lancelot worshipt no unmarried 
girl, 

But the great Queen herself, fought 
in her name, 

Sware by her — vows like theirs that 
high in heaven 

Love most, but neither marry nor are 
given 

In marriage, angels of our Lord's re- 
port. 



He ceased, and then — for Vivien 

sweetly said — 
She sat beside the banquet nearest 

Mark, — 
1 And is the fair example f ollow'd, sir, 
In Arthur's household ? ' — answer'd 

innocently : — 20 

' Ay, by some few — ay, truly — 
youths that hold 

It more beseems the perfect virgin 
knight 

To worship woman as true wife be- 
yond 

All hopes of gaining, than as maiden 
girl. 

They place their pride in Lancelot 
and the Queen. 

So passionate for an utter purity 

Beyond the limit of their bond are 
these, 

For Arthur bound them not to single- 
ness. 

Brave hearts and clean! and yet— 
God guide them ! — young.' 

Then Mark was half in heart to 
hurl his cup 30 

Straight at the speaker, but forbore. 
He rose 

To leave the hall, and, Vivien follow- 
ing him, 

Turn'd to her : ' Here are snakes within 
the grass ; 

And you methinks, O Vivien, save ye 
fear 

The monkish manhood, and the mask 
of pure 

Worn by this court, can stir them till 
they sting.' 

And Vivien answer'd, smiling scorn- 
fully: 
'Why fear? because that foster'd at 

thy court 
I savor of thy — virtues? fear them? 

no, 
As love, if love be perfect, casts out 

fear, 40 

So hate, if hate be perfect, casts out 

fear. 
My father died in battle against the 

King, 
My mother on his corpse in open field ; 
She bore me there, for born from 

death was I 



MERLIN AND VIVIEN 



469 



Among the dead and sown upon the 

wind — 
And then on thee ! and shown the 

truth betimes, 
That old true filth, and bottom of the 

well, 
Where Truth is hidden. Gracious 

lessons thine, 
And maxims of the mud ! ' ' This 

Arthur pure ! 
Great Nature thro' the flesh herself 

hath made 50 



Gives him the lie ! There is no being 
pure, 

My cherub ; saith not Holy Writ the 
same ? " — 

If I were Arthur, I would have thy 
blood. 

Thy blessing, stainless King ! I bring 
thee back, 

When I have ferreted out their bur- 
rowings, 

The hearts of all this Order in mine 
hand — 




4 At Merlin's feet the wily Vivien lay ' 



47° 



IDYLLS OF THE KING 



Ay — so that fate and craft and folly 

close, 
Perchance, one curl of Arthur's golden 

beard. 
To me this narrow grizzled fork of 

thine 
Is cleaner- fashion' d — Well, I loved 

thee first ; 60 

That warps the wit.' 

Loud laugh'd the graceless Mark. 
But Vivien, into Camelot stealing, 

lodged 
Low in the city, and on a festal 

day 
When Guinevere was crossing the 

great hall 
Cast herself down, knelt to the Queen, 

and wail'd. 

'Why kneel ye there? What evil 

have ye wrought ? 
Rise ! ' and the damsel bidden rise 

arose 
And stood with folded hands and 

downward eyes 
Of glancing corner and all meekly 

said: 
'None wrought, but suffer'd much, 

an orphan maid ! 70 

My father died in battle for thy King, 
My mother on his corpse — in open 

field, 
The sad sea-sounding wastes of Lyon- 

nesse — 
Poor wretch — no friend ! — and now 

by Mark the king, 
For that small charm of feature mine, 

pursued — 
If any such be mine — I fly to thee. 
Save, save me thou ! Woman of wo- 
men — thine 
The wreath of beauty, thine the crown 

of power, 
Be thine the balm of pity, O heaven's 

own white 
Earth-angel, stainless bride of stainless 

King — 80 

Help, for he follows ! take me to thy- 
self! 
O yield me shelter for mine innocency 
Among thy maidens ! ' 

Here her slow sweet eyes 
Fear-tremulous, but humbly hopeful, 
rose 



Fixt on her hearer's, while the Queen 

who stood 
All glittering like May sunshine on 

May leaves 
In green and gold, and plumed with 

green, replied : 
' Peace, child ! of over-praise and over- 
blame 
We choose the last. Our noble Arthur. 

him 
Ye scarce can overpraise, will hear 

and know. 90 

Nay — we believe all evil of thy 

Mark — 
Well, we shall test thee farther; but 

this hour 
We ride a-hawking with Sir Lancelot. 
He hath given us a fair falcon which 

he train' d ; 
We go to prove it. Bide ye here the 

while.' 

She past ; and Vivien murmur'd 
after, 'Go! 

I bide the while.' Then thro' the 
portal-arch 

Peering askance, and muttering bro- 
ken-wise, 

As one that labors with an evil dream, 

Beheld the Queen and Lancelot get to 
horse. 100 

' Is that the Lancelot ? goodly — ay, 

but gaunt ; 
Courteous — amends for gauntness — 

takes her hand — 
That glance of theirs, but for the 

street, had been 
A clinging kiss — how hand lingers in 

hand ! 
Let go at last ! — they ride away — to 

hawk 
For waterfowl. Royaller game is 

mine. 
For such a supersensual sensual bond 
As that gray cricket chirpt of at our 

hearth — 
Touch flax with flame — a glance will 

serve — the liars! 
Ah little rat that borest in the dyke no 
Thy hole by night to let the boundless 

deep 
Down upon far-off cities while they 

dance — 
Or dream — of thee they dream' d not 

— nor of me 



MERLIN AND VIVIEN 



47i 



These — ay, bat each of either; ride, 

and dream 
The mortal dream that never yet was 

mine — 
Ride, ride and dream until ye wake — 

to me ! 
Then, narrow court and lubber King, 

farewell ! 
For Lancelot will be gracious to the 

rat, 
And our wise Queen, if knowing that 

I know, 
Will hate, loathe, fear — but honor 

me the more.' 120 

Yet while they rode together down 

the plain, 
Their talk was all of training, terms 

of art, 
Diet and seeling, jesses, leash and lure. 
'She is too noble,' he said, 'to check 

at pies, 
Nor will she rake : there is no baseness 

in her. ' 
Here when the Queen demanded as 

by chance, 
* Know ye the stranger woman ? ' ' Let 

her be,' 
Said Lancelot, and unhooded casting 

off 
The goodly falcon free ; she tower'd ; 

her bells, 
Tone under tone, shrill'd ; and they 

lifted up 130 

Their eager faces, wondering at the 

strength, 
Boldness, and royal knighthood .of 

the bird, 
Who pounced her quarry and slew it. 

Many a time 
As once — of old — among the flowers 

— they rode. 

But Vivien half-forgotten of the 

Queen 
Among her damsels broidering sat, 

heard, watch'd, 
And whisper'd. Thro' the peaceful 

court she crept 
And whisper'd ; then, as Arthur in 

the highest 
Leaven'd the world, so Vivien in the 

lowest, 
Arriving at a time of golden rest, 140 
And sowing one ill hint from ear to 

ear, 



While all the heathen lay at Arthur's 

feet, 
And no quest came, but all was joust 

and play, 
Leaven'd his hall. They heard and 

let her be. 

Thereafter, as an enemy that has 
left 

Death in the living waters and with- 
drawn, 

The wily Vivien stole from Arthur's 
court. 

She hated all the knights, and heard 

in thought 
Their lavish comment when her name 

was named. 
For once, when Arthur walking all 

alone, 150 

Vext at a rumor issued from herself 
Of some corruption crept among his 

knights, 
Had met her, Vivien, being greeted 

fair, 
Would fain have wrought upon his 

cloudy mood 
With reverent eyes mock-loyal, shaken 

voice, 
And flutter' d adoration, and at last 
With dark sweet hints of some who 

prized him more 
Than who should prize him most ; at 

which the King 
Had gazed upon her blanklv and gone 

by. 

But one had watch'd, and had not 

held his peace ; 160 

It made the laughter of an afternoon 
That Vivien should attempt the 

blameless King. 
And after that, she set herself to gain 
Him, the most famous man of all 

those times, 
Merlin, who knew the range of all 

their arts, 
Had built the King his havens, ships, 

and halls, 
Was also bard, and knew the starry 

heavens ; 
The people call'd him wizard ; whom 

at first 
She play'd about with slight and 

sprightly talk, 
And vivid smiles, and fai ntly- venom 'd 

points 170 



472 



IDYLLS OF THE KING 



Of slander, glancing here and grazing 

there ; 
And yielding to his kindlier moods, 

the seer 
Would watch her at her petulance 

and play, 
Even when they seem'd unlovable, 

and laugh 
As those that watch a kitten. Thus 

he grew 
Tolerant of what he half disdain' d, 

and she, 
Perceiving that she was but half dis- 

dain'd, 
Began to break her sports with graver 

fits, 
Turn red or pale, would often when 

they met 
Sigh fully, or all-silent gaze upon him 
With such a fixt devotion that the old 

man, 181 

Tho' doubtful, felt the flattery, and 

at times 
Would flatter his own wish in age for 

love, 
And half believe her true ; for thus at 

times 
He waver'd, but that other clung to 

him, 
Fixt in her will, and so the seasons 

went. 

Then fell on Merlin a great melan- 
choly ; 
He walk'd with dreams and darkness, 

and he found 
A doom that ever poised itself to fall, 
An ever-moaning battle in the mist, 
World-war of dying flesh against the 
life, 191 

Death in all life and lying in all love, 
The meanest having power upon the 

highest, 
And the high purpose broken by the 
worm. 

So leaving Arthur's court he gain'd 

the beach, 
There found a little boat and stept 

into it ; 
And Vivien follow'd, but he mark'd 

her not. 
She took the helm and he the sail; 

the boat 
Drave with a sudden wind across the 

deeps, 



And, touching Breton sands, they dis-^ 

embark' d. 200 

And then she follow'd Merlin all the 

way, 
Even to the wild woods of Broceliande. 
For Merlin once had told her of a 

charm, 
The which if any wrought on any one 
With woven paces and with waving 

arms, 
The man so wrought on ever seem'd 

to lie 
Closed in the four walls of a hollow 

tower, 
From which was no escape for ever- 
more; 
And none could find that man for 

evermore, 
Nor could he see but him who wrought 

the charm 210 

Coming and going, and he lay as dead 
And lost to life and use and name and 

fame. 
And Vivien ever sought to work the 

charm 
Upon the great enchanter of the time, 
As fancying that her glory would be 

great 
According to his greatness whom she 

quench' d. 

There lay she all her length and 

kiss'd his feet, 
As if in deepest reverence and in love. 
A twist of gold was round her hair ; a 

robe 
Of samite without price, that more 

exprest 220 

Than hid her, clung about her lissome 

limbs. 
In color like the satin-shining palm 
On sallows in the windy gleams of 

March. 
And while she kiss'd them, crying, 

' Trample me, 
Dear feet, that I have follow'd thro' 

the world, 
And I will pay you worship ; tread 

me down 
And I will kiss you for it ; ' he was 

mute. 
So dark a forethought roll'd about his 

brain, 
As on a dull day in an ocean cave 
The blind wave feeling round his long 

sea-hall 230 



MERLIN AND VIVIEN 



473 



In silence ; wherefore, when she lifted 

up 
A face of sad appeal, and spake and 

said, 
'0 Merlin, do ye love me?' and again, 

* O Merlin, do ye love me ? ' and once 

more, 

* Great Master, do ye love me?' he 

was mute. 
And lissome Vivien, holding by his 

heel, 
Writhed toward him, slided up his 

knee and sat, 
Behind his ankle twined her hollow 

feet 
Together, curved an arm about his 

neck, 
Clung like a snake; and letting her 

left hand 240 

Droop from his mighty shoulder, as a 

leaf, 
Made with her right a comb of pearl 

to part 
The lists of such a beard as youth 

gone out 
Had left in ashes. Then he spoke and 

said, 
Not looking at her, ' Who are wise in 

love 
Love most, say least,' and Vivien an- 

swer'd quick : 
' 1 saw the little elf-god eyeless once 
In Arthur's arras hall at Camelot ; 
But neither eyes nor tongue — O stupid 

child ! 
Yet you are wise who say it ; let me 

think 250 

Silence is wisdom. I am silent then, 
And ask no kiss ; ' then adding all at 

once, 
'And lo, I clothe myself with wis- 
dom,' drew 
The vast and shaggy mantle of his 

beard 
Across her neck and bosom to her 

knee, 
And call'd herself a gilded summer fly 
Caught in a great old tyrant spider's 

web, 
Who meant to eat her up in that wild 

wood 
Without one word. So Vivien call'd 

herself, 
But rather seem'd a lovely baleful star 
Veil'd in gray vapor; till he sadly 

smiled : 261 



'To what request for what strange 

boon,' he said, 
' Are these your pretty tricks and 

fooleries, 

Vivien, the preamble? yet my 

thanks, 
For these have broken up my melan- 
choly.' 

And Vivien answer' d smiling sau- 
cily : 
' What, O my Master, have ye found 
your voice ? 

1 bid the stranger welcome. Thanks 

at last ! 
But yesterday you never open'd lip, 
Except indeed to drink. No cup had 

we ; 270 

In mine own lady palms I cull'd the 

spring 
That gather'd trickling drop wise from 

the cleft, 
And made a pretty cup of both my 

hands 
And offer' d you it kneeling. Then 

you drank 
And knew no more, nor gave me one 

poor word ; 
O, no more thanks than might a goat 

have given 
With no more sign of reverence than 

a beard. 
And when we halted at that other 

well, 
And I was faint to swooning, and 

you lay 
Foot-gilt with all the blossom-dust of 

those 280 

Deep meadows we had traversed, did 

you know 
That Vivien bathed your feet before 

her own ? 
And yet no thanks ; and all thro' this 

wild wood 
And all this morning when I fondled 

you. 
Boon, ay, there was a boon, one not 

so strange — 
How had I wrong' d you ? surely ye 

are wise, 
But such a silence is more wise than 

kind.' 

And Merlin lock'd his hand in hers 
and said : 
1 0, did ye never lie upon the shore, 



474 



IDYLLS OF THE KING 



And watch the curl'd white of the 
coming wave 290 

Glass' d in the slippery sand before it 
breaks ? 

Even such a wave, but not so plea- 
surable, 

Dark in the glass of some presageful 
mood, 

Had I for three days seen, ready to 
fall. 

And then I rose and fled from Arthur's 
court 

To break the mood. You follow 'd 
me unask'd ; 

And when I look'd, and saw you fol- 
lowing still, 

My mind involved yourself the near- 
est thing 

In that mind-mist — for shall I tell 
you truth ? 

You seem'd that wave about to break 
upon me 300 

And sweep me from my hold upon 
the world, 

My use and name and fame. Your 
pardon, child. 

Your pretty sports have brighten'd all 
again. 

And ask your boon, for boon I owe 
you thrice, 

Once for wrong done you by confusion, 
next 

For thanks it seems till now neglected, 
last 

For these your dainty gambols ; where- 
fore ask, 

And take this boon so strange and not 
so strange/ 

And Vivien answer'd smiling mourn- 
fully : 
' O, not so strange as my long asking 

it, 310 

Not yet so strange as you yourself are 

strange, 
Nor half so strange as that dark mood 

of yours. 
I ever fear'd ye were not wholly mine ; 
And see, yourself have own'd ye did 

me wrong. 
The people call you prophet ; let it 

be; 
But not of those that can expound 

themselves. 
Take Vivien for expounder ; she will 

call 



That three-days-long presageful gloom 

of yours 
No presage, but the same mistrustful 

mood 
That makes you seem less noble than 

yourself, 320 

Whenever I have ask'd this very boon, 
Now ask'd again ; for see you not, 

dear love, 
That such a mood as that which lately 

gloom'd 
Your fancy when ye saw me follow- 
ing you 
Must make me fear still more you are 

not mine, 
Must make me yearn still more to 

prove you mine, 
And make me wish still more to J earn 

this charm 
Of woven paces and of waving hands, 
As proof of trust. Merlin, "teach it 

me ! 
The charm so taught will charm us 

both to rest. 33 o 

For, grant me some slight power upon 

your fate, 
I, feeling that you felt me worthy 

trust, 
Should rest and let you rest, knowing 

you mine. 
And therefore be as great as ye are 

named, 
Not muffled round with selfish reti- 
cence. 
How hard you look and how deny- 

ingly ! 
O, if you think this wickedness in me, 
That I should prove it on you un- 
awares, 
That makes me passing wrathful ; 

then our bond 
Had best be loosed for ever ; but 

think or not, 340 

By Heaven that hears, I tell you the 

clean truth, 
As clean as blood of babes, as white 

as milk ! 
O Merlin, may this earth, if ever I, 
If these unwitty wandering wits of 

mine, 
Even in the jumbled rubbish of a 

dream, 
Have tript on such conjectural treach- 
ery- 
May this hard earth cleave to the 

nadir hell 



MERLIN AND VIVIEN 



475 



Down, down, and close again and nip 

me flat, 
If I be such a traitress ! Yield my 

boon, 
Till which I scarce can yield you all 
• I am ; 350 

And grant my re-reiterated wish, 
The great proof of your love ; because 

I think, 
However wise, ye hardly know me 

yet.' 

And Merlin loosed his hand from 

hers and said : 
' I never was less wise, however wise, 
Too curious Vivien, tho' you talk of 

trust, 
Than when I told you first of such a 

charm. 
Yea, if ye talk of trust I tell you this, 
Too much I trusted when I told you 

that, 
And stirr'd this vice in you which 

ruin'd man 360 

Thro' woman the first hour ; for bow- 
see' er 
In children a great curiousness be 

well, 
Who have to learn themselves and all 

the world, 
In you, that are no child, for still I 

find 
Your face is practised when I spell 

the lines, 
I call it, — well, I will not call it 

vice ; 
But since you name yourself the sum- 
mer fly, 
I well could wish a cobweb for the 

gnat 
That settles beaten back, and beaten 

back 
Settles, till one could yield for weari- 
ness. 370 
But since I will not yield to give you 

power 
Upon my life and use and name and 

fame, 
Why will ye never ask some other 

boon? 
Yea, by God's rood, I trusted you too 

much ! ' 

And Vivien, like the tenderest- 
hearted maid 
That ever bided tryst at village stile, 



Made answer, either eyelid wet with 

tears : 
'Nay, Master, be not wrathful with 

your maid ; 
Caress her, let her feel herself for- 
given 
Who feels no heart to ask another 

boon. 380 

I think ye hardly know the tender 

rhyme 
Of "trust me not at all or all in 

all." 
I heard the great Sir Lancelot sing it 

once, 
And it shall answer for me. Listen 

to it. 

'"In love, if love be love, if love be 
ours, 

Faith and unfaith can ne'er be equal pow- 
ers : 

Unfaith in aught is want of faith in all. 

' "It is the little rift within the lute, 
That by and by will make the music mute, 
And ever widening slowly silence all. 390 

1 " The little rift within the lover's lute, 
Or little pitted speck in garner' d fruit, 
That rotting inward slowly moulders all. 

' "It is not worth the keeping ; let it go : 
But shall it ? answer, darling, answer, no. 
And trust me not at all or all in all." 

'O master, do ye love my tender 
rhyme ? ' 

And Merlin look'd and half believed 

her true, 
So tender was her voice, so fair her 

face, 
So sweetly gleam'd her eyes behind 

her tears 400 

Like sunlight on the plain behind a 

shower ; 
And yet he answer' d half indignantly : 

* Far other was the song that once 

I heard 
By this huge oak, sung nearly where 

we sit ; 
For here we met, some ten or twelve 

of us, 
To chase a creature that was current 

then 
In these wild woods, the hart with 

golden horns. 



476 



IDYLLS OF THE KING 



It was the time when first the ques- 
tion rose 
About the founding of a Table Round, 
That was to be, for love of God and 

men 410 

And noble deeds, the flower of all the 

world ; 
And each incited each to noble deeds. 
And while we waited, one, the young- 
est of us, 
We could not keep him silent, out he 

flash'd, 
And into such a song, such fire for 

fame, 
Such trumpet-blowings in it, coming 

down 
To such a stern and iron-clashing 

close, 
That when he stopt we long'd to hurl 

together, 
And should have done it, but the 

beauteous beast 
Scared by the noise upstarted at our 

feet, 420 

And like a silver shadow slipt away 
Thro 1 the dim land. And all day long 

we rode 
Thro' the dim land against a rushing 

wind, 
That glorious roundel echoing in our 

ears, 
And chased the flashes of his golden 

horns 
Until they vanish'd by the fairy well 
That laughs at iron — as our warriors 

did — 
Where children cast their pins and 

nails, and cry 
"Laugh, little well!" but touch it 

with a sword, 
It buzzes fiercely round the point ; 

and there 430 

We lost him — such a noble song was 

that. 
But, Vivien, when you sang me that 

sweet rhyme, 
I felt as tho' you knew this cursed 

charm, 
Were proving it on me, and that I lay 
And felt them slowly ebbing, name 

and fame.' 

And Vivien answer'd smiling mourn- 
fully : 
'O, mine have ebb'd away for ever- 
more, 



And all thro' following you to this 

wild wood, 
Because I saw you sad, to comfort 

you. 
Lo now, what hearts have men ! they 

never mount 44 o 

As high as woman in her selfless mood. 
And touching fame, howe'er ye scorn 

my song, 
Take one verse more — the lady 

speaks it — this : 

'"My name, once mine, now thine, is 

eloselier mine, 
For fame, could fame be mine, that fame 

were thine, 
And, shame, could shame be thine, that 

shame were mine. 
So trust me not at all or all in all." 

1 Says she not well ? and there is 

more — this rhyme 
Is like the fair pearl-necklace of the 

Queen, 
That burst in dancing and the pearls 

were spilt ; 450 

Some lost, some stolen, some as relics 

kept ; 
But nevermore the same two sister 

pearls 
^Ran down the silken thread to kiss 

each other 
On her white neck — so is it with this 

rhyme. 
It lives dispersedly in many hands, 
And every minstrel sings it differently ; 
Yet is there one true line, the pearl'of 

pearls : 
"Man dreams of fame while woman 

wakes to love." 
Yea ! love, tho' love were of the gross- 
est, carves 
A portion from the solid present, 

eats 460 

And uses, careless of the rest ; but 

fame, 
The fame that follows death is nothing 

to us ; 
And what is fame in life but half-dis- 

fame 
And counterchanged with darkness? 

ye yourself 
Know well that envy calls you devil's 

son, 
And since ye seem the master of all art, 
They fain would make you master of 

all vice.' 



MERLIN AND VIVIEN 



477 




'"I took his brush and blotted out the bird ' 



And Merlin lock'd his hand in hers 

and said : 
' I once was looking for a magic weed, 
And found a fair young squire who 

sat alone, 470 

Had carved himself a knightly shield 

of wood, 
And then was painting on it fancied 

arms, 
Azure, an eagle rising or, the sun 
In dexter chief ; the scroll, " I follow 

fame." 



And speaking not, but leaning over 
him, 

I took his brush and blotted out the 
bird, 

And made a gardener putting in a 
graff, 

With this for motto, ' ' Rather use than 
fame." 

You should have seen him blush ; but 
afterwards 

He made a stalwart knight. O Vi- 
vien, 480 



478 



IDYLLS OF THE KING 



For you, me thinks you think you love 

me well ; 
For me, I love you somewhat. Rest ; 

and Love 
Should have some rest and pleasure in 

himself, 
Not ever be too curious for a boon, 
Too prurient for a proof against the 

grain 
Of him ye say ye love. But Fame 

with men, 
Being but ampler means to serve man- 
kind, 
Should have small rest or pleasure in 

herself, 
But work as vassal to the larger love 
That dwarfs the petty love of one to 

one. 490 

Use gave me fame at first, and fame 

again 
Increasing gave me use. Lo, there 

my boon ! 
What other? for men sought to prove 

me vile, 
Because I fain had given them greater 

wits ; 
And then did envy call me devil's 

son. 
The sick weak beast, seeking to help 

herself 
By striking at her better, miss'd, and 

brought 
Her own claw back, and wounded her 

own heart. 
Sweet were the days when I was all 

unknown, 
But when my name was lifted up the 

storm 500 

Brake on the mountain and I cared 

not for it. 
Right well know I that fame is half- 

disfame, 
Yet needs must work my work. That 

other fame, 
To one at least who hath not children 

vague, 
The cackle of the unborn about the 

grave, 
I cared not for it. A single misty 

star, 
Which is the second in a line of stars 
That seem a sword beneath a belt of 

three, 
I never gazed upon it but I dreamt 
Of some vast charm concluded in that 

star 510 



To make fame nothing. Wherefore, 
if I fear, 

Giving you power upon me thro' this 
charm, 

That you might play me falsely, hav- 
ing power, 

However well ye think ye love me 
now — 

As sons of kings loving in pupilage 

Have turn'd to tyrants when they 
came to power — 

I rather dread the loss of use than 
fame ; 

If you — and not so much from wicked- 
ness, 

As some wild turn of anger, or a 
mood 

Of overstrain' d affection, it may be, 520 

To keep me all to your own self, — or 
else 

A sudden spurt of woman's j ealousy, — 

Should try this charm on whom ye say 
ye love.' 

And Yivien answer' d smiling as in 

wrath : 
' Have I not sworn ? I am not trusted. 

Good! 
Well, hide it, hide it ; I shall find it 

out, 
And being found take heed of Yivien. 
A woman and not trusted, doubtless I 
Might feel some sudden turn of anger 

born 
Of your misfaith ; and your fine epi- 
thet 530 
Is accurate too, for this full love of 

mine 
Without the full heart back may merit 

well 
Your term of overstrain'd. So used 

as I, 
My daily wonder is, I love at all. 
And as to woman's jealousy, O, why 

not? 
O, to what end, except a jealous one, 
And one to make me jealous if I 

love, 
Was this fair charm invented by your- 
self? 
I well believe that all about this world 
Ye cage a buxom captive here and 

there, 540 

Closed in the four walls of a hollow 

tower 
From which is no escape for evermore. ' 






MERLIN AND VIVIEN 



479 



Then the great master merrily an- 

swer'd her : 
' Full many a love in loving youth 

was mine ; 
I needed then no charm to keep them 

mine 
But youth and love ; and that full 

heart of yours 
Whereof ye prattle, may now assure 

you mine ; 
So live uncharm'd. For those who 

wrought it first, 
The wrist is parted from the hand that 

waved, 
The feet unmortised from their ankle- 
bones 550 
Who paced it, ages back — but will ye 

hear 
The legend as in guerdon for your 

rhyme ? 

'There lived a king in the most 
eastern East, 

Less old than I, yet older, for my 
blood 

Hath earnest in it of far springs to be. 

A tawny pirate anchor'd in his port, 

Whose bark had plunder' d twenty 
nameless isles ; 

And passing one, at the high peep of 
dawn, 

He saw two cities in a thousand boats 

All fighting for a woman on the 
sea. 560 

And pushing his black craft among 
them all 

He lightly scatter' d theirs and brought 
her off, 

With loss of half his people arrow- 
slain ; 

A maid so smooth, so white, so won- 
derful, 

They said a light came from her when 
she moved. 

And since the pirate would not yield 
her up, 

The king impaled him for his piracy, 

Then made her queen. But those isle- 
nurtured eyes 

Waged such unwilling tho' successful 
war 

On all the youth, they sicken'd ; coun- 
cils thinn'd, 570 

And armies waned, for magnet-like 
she drew 

The rustiest iron of old fighters' hearts ; 



And beasts themselves would worship ; 

camels knelt 
Unbidden, and the brutes of moun- 
tain back 
That carry kings in castles bow'd 

black knees 
Of homage, ringing with their serpent 

hands, 
To make her smile, her golden ankle- 
bells. 
What wonder, being jealous, that he 

sent 
His horns of proclamation out thro' 

all 
The hundred under-kingdoms that he 

sway'd 580 

To find a wizard who might teach the 

king 
Some charm which, being wrought 

upon the queen, 
Might keep her all his own. To such 

a one 
He promised more than ever king has 

given, 
A league of mountain full of golden 

mines, 
A province with a hundred miles of 

coast, 
A palace and a princess, all for him ; 
But on all those who tried and fail'd 

the king 
Pronounced a dismal sentence, mean- 
ing by it 
To keep the list low and pretenders 

back, 590 

Or, like a king, not to be trifled with — 
Their heads should moulder on the 

city gates. 
And many tried and fail'd, because 

the charm 
Of nature in her overbore their own ; 
And many a wizard brow bleach 'd on 

the walls, 
And many weeks a troop of carrion 

crows 
Hung like a cloud above the gateway 

towers. ' 

And Vivien breaking in upon him, 
said : 
' I sit and gather honey ; yet, methinks, 
Thy tongue has trip t a little ; ask thy- 
self. 600 
The lady never made unwilling war 
With those fine eyes ; she had her 
pleasure in it, 



480 



IDYLLS OF THE KING 



And made her good man j ealons with 

good cause. 
And lived there neither dame nor dam- 
sel then 
Wroth at a lover's loss ? were all as 

tame, 
I mean, as noble, as their queen was 

fair? 
Not one to flirt a venom at her eyes, 
Or pinch a murderous dust into her 

drink, 
Or make her paler with a poison' d 

rose ? 
Well, those were not our days — but 

did they find 610 

A wizard? Tell me, was he like to 

thee ? ' 

She ceased, and made her lithe arm 

round his neck 
Tighten, and then drew back, and let 

her eyes 
Speak for her, glowing on him, like a 

bride's 
On her new lord, her own, the first of 

men. 

He answer'd laughing: 'Nay, not 

like to me. 
At last they found — his foragers for 

charms — 
A little glassy-headed hairless man, 
Who lived alone in a great wild on 

grass, 
Bead but one book, and ever reading 

grew 620 

So grated down and filed away with 

thought, 
So lean his eyes were monstrous ; 

while the skin 
Clung but to crate and basket, ribs 

and spine. 
And since he kept his mind on one sole 

aim, 
Nor ever touch' d fierce wine, nor 

tasted flesh, 
Nor own'd a sensual wish, to him the 

wall 
That sunders ghosts and shadow-cast- 
ing men 
Became a crystal, and he saw them 

thro' it, 
And heard their voices talk behind the 

wall, 
And learnt their elemental secrets, 

powers 630 



And forces ; often o'er the sun's bright 

eye 
Drew the vast eyelid of an inky cloud, 
And lash'd it at the base with slanting 

storm ; 
Or in the noon of mist and driving 

rain, 
When the lake whiten' d and the pine- 
wood roar'd, 
And the cairn'd mountain was a shad- 
ow, sunn'd 
The world to peace again. Here was 

the man ; 
And so by force they dragg'd him to 

the king. 
And then he taught the king to charm 

the queen 
In such- wise that no man could see 

her more, 640 

Nor saw she save the king, who 

wrought the charm, 
Coming and going, and she lay as 

dead, 
And lost all use of life. But when the 

king 
Made proffer of the league of golden 

mines, 
The province with a hundred miles of 

coast, 
The palace and the princess, that old 

man 
Went back to his old wild, and lived 

on grass, 
And vanish'd, and his book came 

down to me.' 

And Vivien answer'd smiling sau- 
cily : 

' Ye have the book ; the charm is writ- 
ten in it. 650 

Good ! take my counsel, let me know 
it at once ; 

For keep it like a puzzle chest in chest, 

With each chest lock'd and padlock'd 
thirty -fold, 

And whelm all this beneath as vast a 
mound 

As after furious battle turfs the slain 

On some wild down above the windy 
deep, 

I yet should strike upon a sudden 
means 

To dig, pick, open, find and read the 
charm ; 

Then, if I tried it, who should blame 
me then ? ' 



MERLIN AND VIVIEN 



481 



And smiling as a master smiles at 
one 660 

That is not of his school, nor any school 
But that where blind and naked Igno- 
rance 
Delivers brawling judgments, un- 
ashamed, 
On all things all day long, he answer'd 
her : 

'Thou read the book, my pretty 

Vivien ! 
O, ay, it is but twenty pages long, 
But every page having an ample 

marge, 
And every marge enclosing in the midst 
A square of text that looks a little blot. 
The text no larger than the limbs of 

fleas ; 670 

And every square of text an awful 

charm, 
Writ in a language that has long gone 

by, 

So long that mountains have arisen 

since 
With cities on their flanks — thou read 

the book ! 
And every margin scribbled, crost, 

and cramm'd 
With comment, densest condensation, 

hard 
To mind and eye ; but the long sleep- 
less nights 
Of my long life have made it easy to 

me. 
And none can read the text, not even I ; 
And none can read the comment but 

myself ; 680 

And in the comment did I find the 

charm. 
O, the results are simple ; a mere child 
Might use it to the harm of any one, 
And never could undo it. Ask no 

more ; 
For tho' you should not prove it upon 

me, 
But keep that oath ye sware, ye 

might, perchance, 
Assay it on some one of the Table 

Round, 
And all because ye dream they babble 

of you. ' 

And Vivien, frowning in true anger, 
said : 
* What dare the full-fed liars say of me ? 



They ride abroad redressing human 
wrongs ! 691 

They sit with knife in meat and wine 
in horn. 

They bound to holy vows of chastity ! 

Were I not woman, I could tell' a 
tale. 

But you are man, you well can under- 
stand 

The shame that cannot be explain' d 
for shame. 

Not one of all the drove should touch 
me — swine ! ' 

Then answer'd Merlin careless of 

her words: 
' You breathe but accusation vast and 

vague, 
Spleen-born, I think, and proofless. If 

ye know, 700 

Set up the charge ye know, to stand 

or fall ! ' 

And Vivien answer'd frowning 
wrathfully : 

'O, ay, what say ye to Sir Valence, 
him 

Whose kinsman left him watcher o'er 
his wife 

And two fair babes, and went to dis- 
tant lands, 

Was one year gone, and on returning 
found 

Not two but three ? there lay the reck- 
ling, one 

But one hour old ! What said the 
happy sire ? 

A seven-months' babe had been a truer 
gift. 

Those twelve sweet moons confused 
his fatherhood.' 710 

Then answer'd Merlin : 'Nay, I 

know the tale. 
Sir Valence wedded with an outland 

dame; 
Some cause had kept him sunder d 

from his wife. 
One child they had ; it lived with her ; 

she died. 
His kinsman travelling on his own af- 
fair 
Was charged by Valence to bring 

home the child. 
He brought, not found it therefore ; 

take the truth.' 



482 



IDYLLS OF THE KING 



4 O, ay,' said Vivien, 'over- true a 

tale! 
What say ye then to sweet Sir Sagra- 

more, 
That ardent man? "To pluck the 

flower in season," 720 

So says the song, "I trow it is no 

treason." 

Master, shall we call him over- 

quick 
To crop his own sweet rose before the 
hour ? ' 

And Merlin answer'd : ' Over-quick 

art thou 
To catch a loathly plume fallen from 

the wing 
Of that foul bird of rapine whose 

whole prey 
Is man's good name. He never 

wrong' d his bride. 

1 know the tale. An angry gust of 

wind 

Puff'd out his torch among the myriad- 
room' d 

And many- corri dor 'd complexities 730 

Of Arthur's palace. Then he found a 
door, 

And darkling felt the sculptured orna- 
ment 

That wreathen round it made it seem 
his own, 

And wearied out made for the couch 
and slept, 

A stainless man beside a stainless 
maid ; 

And either slept, nor knew of oth ei- 
ther e, 

Till the high dawn piercing the royal 
rose 

In Arthur's casement glimmer' d 
chastely down, 

Blushing upon them blushing, and at 
once 

He rose without a word and parted 
from her. 74 o 

But when the thing was blazed about 
the court, 

The brute world howling forced them 
into bonds, 

And as it chanced they are happy, 
being pure.' 

'O, ay,' said Vivien, 'that were 
likely too ! 
What say ye then to fair Sir Percivale 



And of the horrid foulness that he 
wrought, 

The saintly youth, the spotless lamb 
of Christ, 

Or some black wether of Saint Satan's 
fold? 

What, in the precincts of the chapel- 
yard, 

Among the knightly brasses of the 
graves, 750 

And by the cold Hie Jacets of the 
dead ! ' 

And Merlin answer'd careless of her 

charge : 
1 A sober man is Percivale and pure, 
But once in life was fluster'd with new 

wine, 
Then paced for coolness in the chapel- 
yard, 
Where one of Satan's shepherdesses 

caught 
And meant to stamp him with her 

master's mark. 
And that he sinn'd is not believable ; 
For, look upon his face ! — but if he 

sinn'd, 
The sin that practice burns into the 

blood, 760 

And not the one dark hour which 

brings remorse, 
Will brand us, after, of whose fold we 

be; 
Or else were he, the holy king whose 

hymns 
Are chanted in the minster, worse 

than all. 
But is your spleen froth' d out, or have 

ye more ? ' 

And Vivien answer'd frowning yet 

in wrath : 
* O, ay ; what say ye to Sir Lancelot, 

friend, 
Traitor or true ? that commerce with 

the Queen, 
I ask you, is it clamor'd by the child, 
Or whisper* d in the corner? do ye 

know it ? ' 770 

To which he answer'd sadly : ' Yea, 

I know it. 
Sir Lancelot went ambassador, at 

first, 
To fetch her, and she watch'd him 

from her walls. 



MERLIN AND VIVIEN 



483 



A rumor runs, she took him for the 
King, 

So fixt her fancy on him ; let them 
be. 

But have ye no one word of loyal 
praise 

For Arthur, blameless king and stain- 
less man ? ' 

She answer'd with a low and chuc- 
kling laugh : 

1 Man ! is he man at all, who knows 
and winks ? 

Sees what his fair bride is and does, 
and winks ? 780 

By which the good King means to 
blind himself, 

And blinds himself and all the Table 
Round 

To all the foulness that they work. 
Myself 

Could call him — were it not for wo- 
manhood — 

The pretty, popular name such man- 
hood earns, 

Could call him the main cause of all 
their crime, 

Yea, were he not crown'd king, cow- 
ard and fool/ 

Then Merlin to his own heart, loath- 
ing, said : 

1 true and tender ! O my liege and 
King! 

O selfless man and stainless gentle- 
man, 790 

Who wouldst against thine own eye- 
witness fain 

Have all men true and leal, all women 
pure ! 

How, in the mouths of base interpre- 
ters, 

From over-fineness not intelligible 

To things with every sense as false 
and foul 

As the poach'd filth that floods the 
middle street, 

Is thy white blamelessness accounted 
blame ! ' 

But Vivien, deeming Merlin over- 
borne 

By instance, recommenced, and let 
her tongue 

Rage like a fire among the noblest 
names, 800 



Polluting, and imputing her whole 

self, 
Defaming and defacing, till she left 
Not even Lancelot brave nor Galahad 

clean. 

Her words had issue other than she 
wilFd. 

He dragg'd his eyebrow bushes down, 
and made 

A . snowy pent-house for his hollow 
eyes, 

And mutter'd in himself : ' Tell her 
the charm ! 

So, if she had it, would she rail on 
me 

To snare the next, and if she have it 
not 

So will she rail. What did the wan- 
ton say ? 810 

"Not mount as high!" we scarce 
can sink as low ; 

For men at most differ as heaven and 
earth, 

But women, worst and best, as hea- 
ven and hell. 

I know the Table Round, my friends 
of old ; 

All brave, and many generous, and 
some chaste. 

She cloaks the scar of some repulse 
with lies. 

I well believe she tempted them and 
fail'd, 

Being so bitter; for fine plots may 
fail, 

Tho' harlots paint their talk as well as 
face 

With colors of the heart that are not 
theirs. 820 

I will not let her know ; nine tithes of 
times 

Face-flatterer and backbiter are the 
same. 

And they, sweet soul, that most im- 
pute a crime 

Are pronest to it, and impute them- 
selves, 

Wanting the mental range, or low de- 
sire 

Not to feel lowest makes them level 
all; 

Yea, they would pare the mountain 
to the plain, 

To leave an equal baseness ; and in 
this 



4 8 4 



IDYLLS OF THE KING 



Are harlots like the crowd that if they 

find 
Some stain or blemish in a name of 

note, 830 

Not grieving that their greatest are so 

small, 
Inflate themselves with some insane 

delight, 
And judge all nature from her feet of 

clay, 
Without the will to lift their eyes, and 

see 
Her godlike head crown' d with spirit- 
ual fire, 
And touching other worlds. I am 

weary of her/ 

He spoke in words part heard, in 

whispers part, 
Half-suffocated in the hoary fell 
And many-winter'd fleece of throat 

and chin. 
But Vivien, gathering somewhat of 

his mood, 840 

And hearing ' harlot ' mutter' d twice 

or thrice, 
Leapt from her session on his lap, and 

stood 
Stiff as a viper frozen; loathsome 

sight, 
How from the rosy lips of life and 

love 
Flash'd the bare-grinning skeleton of 

death ! 
White was her cheek ; sharp breaths 

of anger puff'd 
Her fairy nostril out ; her hand half- 

clench'd 
Went faltering sideways downward 

to her belt, 
And feeling. Had she found a dag- 
ger there — 
For in a wink the false love turns to 

hate — 850 

She would have stabb'd him ; but she 

found it not. 
His eye was calm, and suddenly she 

took 
To bitter weeping like a beaten child, 
A long, long weeping, not consolable. 
Then her false voice made way, broken 

with sobs : 

' O crueller than was ever told in tale 
Or sung in song ! O vainly lavish' d 
love ! 



cruel, there was nothing wild or 

strange, 
Or seeming shameful — for w T hat shame 

in love, 
So love be true, and not as yours is ? 

— nothing 860 

Poor Vivien had not done to win his 

trust 
Who call'd her what he call'd her — 

all her crime, 
All — all — the wish to prove him 

wholly hers/ 

She mused a little, and then clapt 
her hands 
Together with a wailing shriek, and 
said : 

1 Stabb'd through the heart's affections 

to the heart ! 

Seethed like the kid in its own mo- 
ther's milk ! 

Kill'd with a word worse than a life 
of blows ! 

I thought that he was gentle, being 
great ; 

God, that I had loved a smaller man ! 

1 should have found in him a greater 

heart. 871 

O, I, that flattering my true passion, 

saw 
The knights, the court, the King, 

dark in your light, 
Who loved to make men darker than 

they are, 
Because of that high pleasure which 

I had 
To seat you sole upon my pedestal 
Of worship — I am answer'd, and 

henceforth 
The course of life that seem'd so flow- 
ery to me 
With you for guide and master, only 

you, 
Becomes the sea-cliff pathway broken 

short, 880 

And ending in a ruin — nothing left 
But into some low cave to crawl, and 

there, 
If the wolf spare me, weep my life 

away, 
Kill'd with inutterable unkindliness.' 

She paused, she turn'd away, she 
hung her head, 
The snake of gold slid from her hair, 
the braid 



MERLIN AND VIVIEN 



485 



Slipt and uncoil'd itself, she wept 

afresh, 

And the dark wood grew darker to- 
ward the storm 
In silence, while his anger slowly died 
Within him, till he let his wisdom go 
For ease of heart, and half believed 

her true ; 891 

Call'd her to shelter in the hollow oak, 
'Come from the storm,' and having 

no reply, 
Gazed at the heaving shoulder and 

the face 
Hand-hidden, as for utmost grief or 

shame ; 
Then thrice essay'd, by tenderest- 

touching terms, 
To sleek her ruffled peace of mind, in 

vain. 
At last she let herself be conquer'd by 

him, 
And as the cageling newly flown re- 
turns, 
The seeming-injured simple-hearted 

thing 900 

Came to her old perch back, and set- 
tled there. 
There while she sat, half-falling from 

his knees, 
Half-nestled at his heart, and since he 

saw 
The slow tear creep from her closed 

eyelid yet, 
About her, more in kindness than in 

love, 
The gentle wizard cast a shielding arm. 
But she dislink'd herself at once and 

rose, 
Her arms upon her breast across, and 

stood, 
A virtuous gentlewoman deeply 

wrong'd, 
Upright and flush' d before him ; then 

she said : 910 

' There must be now no passages of 
love 

Betwixt us twain henceforward ever- 
more ; 

Since, if I be what I am grossly call'd, 

What should be granted which your 
own gross heart 

Would reckon worth the taking ? I 
will go. 

In truth, but one thing now — better 
have died 



Thrice than have ask'd it once — could 

make me stay — 
That proof of trust — so often ask'd 

in vain ! 
How justly, after that vile term of 

yours, 
I find with grief! I might believe 

you then, 920 

Who knows ? once more. Lo ! what 

was once to me 
Mere matter of the fancy, now hath 

grown 
The vast necessity of heart and life. 
Farewell ; think gently of me, for I 

fear 
My fate or folly, passing gayer youth 
For one so old, must be to love thee 

still. 
But ere I leave thee let me swear once 

more 
That if I schemed against thy peace 

in this, 
May yon just heaven, that darkens 

o'er me, send 
One flash that, missing all things else, 

may make 930 

My scheming brain a cinder, if I lie. ' 

Scarce had she ceased, when out of 

heaven a bolt — 
For now the storm was close above 

them — struck, 
Furrowing a giant oak, and javelin- 

ing 
With darted spikes and splinters of 

the wood 
The dark earth round. He raised his 

eyes and saw 
The tree that shone white-listed thro' 

the gloom. 
But Vivien, fearing heaven had heard 

her oath, 
And dazzled by the livid-flickering 

fork, 
And deafen'd with the stammering 

cracks and claps 940 

That follow'd, flying back and crying 

out, 
'O Merlin, tho' you do not love me, 

save, 
Yet save me!' clung to him and 

hugg'd him close ; 
And call'd him dear protector in her 

fright, 
Nor yet forgot her practice in her 

fright, 






4 86 



IDYLLS OF THE KING 



But wrought upon his mood and 

hugg'd him close. 
The pale'blood of the wizard at her 

touch 
Took gayer colors, like an opal warm'd. 
She blamed herself for telling hearsay 

tales ; 
She shook from fear, and for her fault 

she wept 950 

Of petulancy ; she call'd him lord and 

liege, 
Her seer, her bard, her silver star of eve, 



Her God, her Merlin, the one passion- 
ate love 

Of her whole life ; and ever overhead 

Bellow'd the tempest, and the rotten 
branch 

Snapt in the rushing of the river-rain 

Above them ; and in change of glare 
and gloom 

Her eyes and neck glittering went 
and came ; 

Till now the storm, its burst of pas- 
sion spent, 




11 1 have made his glory mine ■ 



LANCELOT AND ELAINE 



487 



Moaning and calling out of other 

lands, 960 

Had left the ravaged woodland yet 

once more 
To peace ; and what should not have 

been had been, 
For Merlin, overtalk'd and overworn, 
Had yielded, told her all the charm, 

and slept. 

Then, in one moment, she put forth 

the charm 
Of woven paces and of waving hands, 
And in the hollow oak he lay as 

dead, 
And lost to life and use and name and 

fame. 

Then crying, 'I have made his 
glory mine/ 

And shrieking out, ■ O fool ! ' the har- 
lot leapt 970 

Adown the forest, and the thicket 
closed 

Behind her, and the forest echo'd 
'fool/ 



LANCELOT AND ELAINE 

Elaine the fair, Elaine the lovable, 

Elaine, the lily maid of Astolat, 

High in her chamber up a tower to 
the east 

Guarded the sacred shield of Lancelot ; 

Which first she placed where morn- 
ing's earliest ray 

Might strike it, and awake her with 
the gleam ; 

Then fearing rust or soilure fashion' d 
for it 

A case of silk, and braided thereupon 

All the devices blazon'd on the shield 

In their own tinct, and added, of her 
wit, 10 

A border fantasy of branch and flower, 

And yellow-throated nestling in the 
nest. 

Nor rested thus content, but day by 
day, 

Leaving her household and good fa- 
ther, climb'd 

That eastern tower, and entering 
barr'd her door, 

Stript off the case, and read the naked 
shield, 



Now guess' d a hidden meaning in his 

arms, 
Now made a pretty history to herself 
Of every dint a sword had beaten in it, 
And every scratch a lance had made 

upon it, 20 

Conjecturing when and where: this 

cut is fresh, 
That ten years back ; this dealt him 

at Caerlyle, 
That at Caerleon — this at Camelot — 
And ah, God's mercy, what a stroke 

was there ! 
And here a thrust that might have 

kill'd, but God 
Broke the strong lance, and roll'd his 

enemy down, 
And saved him : so she lived in fan- 
tasy. 

How came the lily maid by that 

good shield 
Of Lancelot, she that knew not even 

his name ? 
He left it with her, when he rode to 

tilt 30 

For the great diamond in the diamond 

jousts, 
Which Arthur had ordain'd, and by 

that name 
Had named them, since a diamond 

was the prize. 

For Arthur, long before they 

crown'd him king, 
Roving the trackless realms of Lyon- 

nesse, 
Had found a glen, gray boulder and 

black tarn. 
A horror lived about the tarn, and 

clave 
Like its own mists to all the mountain 

side; 
For here two brothers, one a king, 

had met 
And fought together, but their names 

were lost ; 40 

And each had slain his brother at a 

blow ; 
And down they fell and made the 

glen abhorr'd. 
And there they lay till all their bones 

were bleach'd, 
And lichen'd into color with the crags. 
And he that once was king had on a 

crown 



488 



IDYLLS OF THE KING 



Of diamonds, one in front and four 

aside. 
And Arthur came, and laboring up 

the pass, 
All in a misty moonshine, unawares 
Had trodden that crown' d skeleton, 

and the skull ' 
Brake from the nape, and from the 

skull the crown 50 

Roll'd into light, and turning on its 

rims 
Fled like a glittering rivulet to the 

tarn. 
And down the shingly ^ scaur he 

plunged, and caught," 
And set it on his head, and in his heart 
Heard murmurs, ' Lo, thou likewise 

shalt be king.' 

Thereafter, when a king, he had 

the gems 
Pluck'd from the crown, and show'd 

them to his knights 
Saying: 'These jewels, whereupon I 

chanced 
Divinely, are the kingdom's, not the 

King's — 
For public use. Henceforward let 

there be, 60 

Once every year, a joust for one of 

these ; 
For so by nine years' proof we needs 

must learn 
Which is our mightiest, and ourselves 

shall grow 
In use of arms and manhood, till we 

drive 
The heathen, who, some say, shall 

rule the land 
Hereafter, which God hinder ! ' Thus 

he spoke. 
And eight years past, eight jousts 

had been, and still 
Had Lancelot won the diamond of the 

year, 
With purpose to present them to the 

Queen 
When all were won ; but, meaning all 

at once 70 

To snare her royal fancy with a boon 
Worth half her realm, had never 

spoken word. 

Now for the central diamond and 
the last 



And largest, Arthur, holding then his 

court 
Hard on the river nigh the place 

which now 
Is this world's hugest, let proclaim a 

joust 
At Camelot, and when the time drew 

nigh 
Spake — for she had been sick — to 

Guinevere : 
1 Are you so sick, my Queen, you can- 
not move 
To these fair jousts?' 'Yea, lord,' 

she said, ' ye know it.' 80 

' Then will ye miss,' he answer'd, 

1 the great deeds 
Of Lancelot, and his prowess in the 

lists, 
A sight ye love to look on.' And the 

Queen 
Lifted her eyes, and they dwelt lan- 
guidly 
On Lancelot, where he stood beside 

the King. 
He, thinking that he read her mean- 
ing there, 
' Stay with me, I am sick ; my love 

is more 
Than many diamonds,' yielded ; and 

a heart 
Love-loyal to the least wish of the 

Queen — 
However much he yearn'd to make 

complete 90 

The tale of diamonds for his destined 

boon — 
Urged him to speak against the truth, 

and say, 
'Sir King, mine ancient wound is 

hardly whole, 
And lets me from the saddle ; ' and 

the King 
Glanced first at him, then her, and 

went his way. 
No sooner gone than suddenly she 

began : 

'To blame, my lord Sir Lancelot, 

much to blame ! 
Why go ye not to these fair jousts ? 

the knights 
Are half of them our enemies, and the 

crowd 
Will murmur, "Lo the shameless 

ones, who take 100 



LANCELOT AND ELAINE 



489 



Their pastime now the trustful King 

is gone ! " ' 
Then Lancelot, vext at having lied in 

vain : 
1 Are ye so wise ? ye were not once so 

wise, 
My Queen, that summer when ye 

loved me first. 
Then of the crowd ye took no more 

account 
Than of the myriad cricket of the 

mead, 
When its own voice clings to each 

blade of grass, 
And every voice is nothing. As to 

knights, 
Them surely can I silence with all 

ease. 
But now my loyal worship is allow'd 
Of all men; many a bard, without 

offence, m 

Has link'd our names together in his 

lay, 
Lancelot, the flower of bravery, Guine- 
vere, 
The pearl of beauty ; and our knights 

at feast 
Have pledged us in this, union, while 

the King 
Would listen smiling. How then ? is 

there more ? 
Has Arthur spoken aught ? or would 

yourself, 
Now weary of my service and devoir, 
Henceforth be truer to your faultless 

lord ? ' 

She broke into a little scornful 
laugh : 120 

1 Arthur, my lord, Arthur, the fault- 
less King, 

That passionate perfection, my good 
lord — 

But who can gaze upon the sun in 
heaven ? 

He never spake word of reproach to 
me, 

He never had a glimpse of mine un- 
truth, 

He cares not for me. Only here to- 
day 

There gleamed a vague suspicion in 
his eyes ; 

Some meddling rogue has tamper'd 
with him — else 

Rapt in this fancy of his Table Round, 



And swearing men to vows impossi- 
ble, 
To make them like himself ; but, 

friend, to me i 3I 

He is all fault who hath no fault at 

all. 
For who loves me must have a touch 

of earth ; 
The low sun makes the color. I am 

yours, 
Not Arthur's, as ye know, save by the 

bond. 
And therefore hear my words : go to 

the jousts ; 
The tiny-trumpeting gnat can break 

our dream 
When sweetest ; and the vermin 

voices here 
May buzz so loud — we scorn them, 

but they sting/ 

Then answer'd Lancelot, the chief 
of knights : 140 

'And with what face, after my pre- 
text made, 

Shall I appear, O Queen, at Camelot, I 

Before a king who honors his own 
word 

As if it were his God's ?' 

'Yea,' said the Queen, 
'A moral child without the craft to 

rule, 
Else had he not lost me ; but listen to 

me, 
If I must find you wit. We hear it 

said 
That men go down before your spear 

at a touch. 
But knowing you are Lancelot ; your 

great name, 
This conquers. Hide it therefore ; 

go unknown. 150 

Win ! by this kiss you will ; and our 

true King 
Will then allow your pretext, O my 

knight, 
As all for glory ; for to speak him 

true, 
Ye know right well, how meek soe'er 

he seem, 
No keener hunter after glory breathes. 
He loves it in his kniglats more than 

himself ; 
They prove to him his work. Win 

and return.' 



49° 



IDYLLS OF THE KING 



Then got Sir Lancelot suddenly to 
horse, 

Wroth at himself. Not willing to be 
known, 

He left the barren-beaten thorough- 
fare, 1 60 

Chose the green path that show'd the 
rarer foot, 

And there among the solitary downs, 

Full often lost in fancy, lost his 
way; 

Till as he traced a faintly-shadow'd 
track, 

That all in loops and links among the 
dales 

Ran to the Castle of Astolat, he saw 

Fired from the west, far on a hill, the 
towers. 

Thither he made, and blew the gate- 
way horn. 

Then came an old, dumb, myriad- 
wrinkled man, 

Who let him into lodging and disarm'd. 

And Lancelot mar veil' d at the word- 
less man ; 171 

And issuing found the Lord of Astolat 

With two strong sons, Sir Torre and 
Sir Lavaine, 

Moving to meet him in the castle court ; 

And close behind them stept the lily 
maid 

Elaine, his daughter ; mother of the 
house 

There was not. Some light jest among 
them rose 

With laughter dying down as the 
great knight 

Approach'd them ; then the Lord of 
Astolat : 

' Whence comest thou, my guest, and 
by what name 180 

Li vest between the lips ? for by thy 
state 

And presence I might guess thee chief 
of those, 

After the King, who eat in Arthur's 
halls. 

Him have I seen ; the rest, his Table 
Round, 

Known as they are, to me they are 
unknown.' 

Then answer'd Lancelot, the chief 
of knights : 
'Known am I, and of Arthur's hall, 
and known, 



What I by mere mischance have 

brought, my shield. 
But since I go to joust as one unknown 
At Camelot for the diamond, ask me 

not ; 190 

Hereafter ye shall know me — and the 

shield — 
I pray you lend me one, if such you 

have, 
Blank, or at least with some device 

not mine/ 

Then said the Lord of Astolat: 

1 Here is Torre's: 
Hurt in his first tilt was my son, Sir 

Torre, 
And so, God wot, his shield is blank 

enough. 
His ye can have/ Then added plain 

Sir Torre, 
'Yea, since I cannot use it, ye may 

have it.' 
Here laugh' d the father saying : ' Fie, 

Sir Churl, 
Is that an answer for a noble knight ? 
Allow him ! but Lavaine, my younger 

here, 201 

He is so full of lustihood, he will ride, 
Joust for it, and win, and bring it in 

an hour, 
And set it in this damsel's golden 

hair, 
To make her thrice as wilful as before. ' 

'Nay, father, nay, good father, 

shame me not 
Before this noble knight/ said young 

Lavaine, 
1 For nothing. Surely I but play'd on 

Torre, 
He seem'd so sullen, vext he could 

not go ; 
A jest, no more ! for, knight, the 

maiden dreamt 210 

That some one put this diamond in 

her hand, 
And that it was too slippery to be held. 
And slipt and fell into some pool or 

stream, 
The castle-well, belike ; and then I said 
That if I went and if I fought and 

won it — 
But all was jest and joke among our- 
selves — 
Then must she keep it safelier. All 

was jest. 



LANCELOT AND ELAINE 



491 




' The lily maid Elaine . . . 
Lifted her eyes and read his lineaments ' 



But, father, give me leave, an if he 

will, 
To ride to Camelot with this noble 

knight. 
Win shall I not, but do my best to 

win ; 
Young as I am, yet would I do my 

best.' 221 

'So ye will grace me/ answer' d 
Lancelot, 



Smiling a moment, 'with your fel- 
lowship 

O'er these waste downs whereon I lost 
myself, 

Then were I glad of you as guide and 
friend ; 

And you shall win this diamond, — as 
I hear, 

It is a fair large diamond, — if ye 
may, 

And yield it to this maiden, if ye will/ 



492 



IDYLLS OF THE KING 



'A fair large diamond,' added plain 
Sir Torre, 

1 Such be for queens, and not for sim- 
ple maids/ 230 

Then she, who held her eyes upon the 
ground, 

Elaine, and heard her name so tost 
about, 

Flush'd slightly at the slight dispar- 
agement 

Before the stranger knight, who, look- 
ing at her, 

Full courtly, yet not falsely, thus re- 
turn' d : 

'If what is fair be but for what is 
fair, 

And only queens are to be counted so, 

Rash were my judgment then, who 
deem this maid 

Might wear as fair a jewel as is on 
earth, 

Not violating the bond of like to like. ' 

He spoke and ceased ; the lily maid 
Elaine, 241 

Won by the mellow voice before she 
look'd, 

Lifted her eyes and read his lineaments. 

The great and guilty love he bare the 
Queen, 

In battle with the love he bare his lord. 

Had marr'd his face, and mark'd it ere 
his time. 

Another sinning on such heights with 
one, 

The flower of all the west and all the 
world, 

Had been the sleeker for it ; but in him 

His mood was often like a fiend, and 
rose 250 

And drove him into wastes and soli- 
tudes 

For agony, who was yet a living soul. 

Marr'd as he was, he seem'd the good- 
liest man 

That ever among ladies ate in hall, 

And noblest, when she lifted up her 
eyes. 

However marr'd, of more than twice 
her years, 

Seam'd with an ancient sword-cut on 
the cheek, 

And bruised and bronzed, she lifted 
up her eyes 

And loved him, with that love which 
was her doom. 



Then the great knight, the darling 

of the court, 260 

Loved of the loveliest, into that rude 

hall 
Stept with all grace, and not with half 

disdain 
Hid under grace, as in a smaller time, 
But kindly man moving among his 

kind ; 
Whom they with meats and vintage 

of their best 
And talk and minstrel melody enter- 

tain'd. 
And much they ask'd of court and 

Table Eound, 
And ever well and readily answerd 

he; 
But Lancelot, when they glanced at 

Guinevere, 
Suddenly speaking of the wordless 

man, 270 

Heard from the baron that, ten years 

before, 
The heathen caught and reft him of 

his tongue. 
'He learnt and warn'd me of their 

fierce design 
Against my house, and him they 

caught and maim'd ; 
But I, my sons, and little daughter fled 
From bonds or death, and dwelt 

among the woods 
By the great river in a boatman's hut. 
Dull days were those, till our good 

Arthur broke 
The Pagan yet once more on Badon 

hill.' 

' O, there, great lord, doubtless,' La- 
vaine said, rapt 280 

By all the sweet and sudden passion 
of youth 

Toward greatness in its elder, 'you 
have fought. 

O, tell us — for we live apart — you 
know 

Of Arthur's glorious wars.' And 
Lancelot spoke 

And answer'd him at full, as having 
been 

With Arthur in the fight which all 
day long 

Rang by the white mouth of the vio- 
lent Glem ; 

And in the four loud battles by the 
shore 



LANCELOT AND ELAINE 



493 



Of Duglas ; that on Bassa ; then the 

war 
That thunder' d in and out the gloomy 

skirts 290 

Of Celidon the forest ; and again 
By Castle Gurnion, where the glori- 
ous King 
Had on his cuirass worn our Lady's 

Head, 
Carved of one emerald centred in a sun 
Of silver rays, that lighten'd as he 

breathed ; 
And at Caerleon had he help'd his 

lord, 
When the strong neighings of the wild 

White Horse 
Set every gilded parapet shuddering ; 
And up in Agned-Cathregonion too, 
And down the waste sand-shores of 

Trath Treroit, 300 

Where many a heathen fell , ' and on 

the mount 
Of Badon I myself beheld the King 
Charge at the head of all his Table 

Round, 
And all his legions crying Christ and 

him, 
And break them ; and I saw him, 

after, stand 
High on a heap of slain, from spur to 

plume 
Red as the rising sun with heathen 

blood, 
And seeing me, with a great voice he 

cried, 
" They are broken, they are broken ! " 

for the King, 
However mild he seems at home, nor 

cares 310 

For triumph in our mimic wars, the 

jousts — 
For if his own knight casts him down, 

he laughs, 
Saying his knights are better men than 

he — 
Yet in this heathen war the fire of 

God 
Fills him. I never saw his like ; there 

lives 
No greater leader.' 

While he utter'd this, 
Low to her own heart said the lily 

maid, 
i Save your great self, fair lord ; ' and 

when he fell 



From talk of war to traits of pleasan- 
try — 
Being mirthful he, but in a stately 

kind — 320 

She still took note that when the liv- 
ing smile 
Died from his lips, across him came a 

cloud 
Of melancholy severe, from which 

again, 
Whenever in her hovering to and 

fro 
The lily maid had striven to make him 

cheer, 
There brake a sudden-beaming tender- 
ness 
Of manners and of nature; and she 

thought 
That all was nature, all, perchance, 

for her. 
And all night long his face before her 

lived, 
As when a painter, poring on a face, 330 
Divinely thro' all hindrance finds the 

man 
Behind it, and so paints him that his 

face, 
The shape and color of a mind and life, 
Lives for his children, ever at its best 
And fullest ; so the face before her 

lived, 
Dark-splendid, speaking in the silence, 

full 
Of noble things, and held her from 

her sleep, 
Till rathe she rose, half-cheated in the 

thought 
She needs must bid farewell to sweet 

Lavaine. 
First as in fear, step after step, she 

stole 340 

Down the long tower-stairs, hesitating. 
Anon, she heard Sir Lancelot cry in 

the court, 
4 This shield, my friend, where is it ? ' 

and Lavaine 
Past inward, as she came from out the 

tower. 
There to his proud horse Lancelot 

turn'd, and smooth'd 
The glossy shoulder, humming to 

himself. 
Half-envious of the flattering hand, 

she drew 
Nearer and stood. He look'd, and, 

more amazed 



494 



IDYLLS OF THE KING 



Than if seven men had set upon him, 

saw 
The maiden standing in the dewy 

light. 350 

He had not dream' d she was so beauti- 
ful. 
Then came on him a sort of sacred 

fear, 
For silent, tho' he greeted her, she 

stood 
Rapt on his face as if it were a 

god's. 
Suddenly flash'd on her a wild desire 
That he should wear her favor at the 

tilt. 
She braved a riotous heart in asking 

for it. 
'Fair lord, whose name I know not — 

noble it is, 
I well believe, the noblest — will you 

wear 
My favor at this tourney?' 'Nay, 5 

said he, 360 

'Fair lady, since I never yet have worn 
Favor of any lady in the lists. 
Such is my wont, as those who know 

me know.' 
' Yea, so, ' she answer'd ; ' then in 

wearing mine 
Needs must be lesser likelihood, noble 

lord, 
That those who know should know 

you.' And he turn'd 
Her counsel up and down within his 

mind, 
And found it true, and answer'd : 

* True, my child. 
Well, I will wear it ; fetch it out to 

me. 
What is it ? ' and she told him, ' A red 

sleeve 370 

Broider'd with pearls,' and brought it. 

Then he bound 
Her token on his helmet, with a smile 
Saying, ■ I never yet have done so 

much 
For any maiden living/ and the blood 
Sprang to her face and fill'd her with 

delight j 
But left her all the paler when Lavaine 
Returning brought the yet-unblazon'd 

shield, 
His brother's, which he gave to Lance 

lot, 
Who parted with his own to fair 

Elaine : 



' Do me this grace, my child, to have 

my shield 380 

In keeping till I come.' 'A grace to 

me,' 
She answer'd, 'twice to-day. I am 

your squire ! ' 
Whereat Lavaine said laughing : ' Lily 

maid, 
For fear our people call you lily maid 
In earnest, let me bring your color 

back ; 
Once, twice, and thrice. Now get 

you hence to bed ; ' 
So kiss'd her, and Sir Lancelot his 

own hand, 
And thus they moved away. She 

staid a minute, 
Then made a sudden step to the gate, 

and there — 
Her bright hair blown about the 

seriousface 39 o 

Yet rosy-kindled with her brother's 

kiss — 
Paused by the gateway, standing near 

the shield 
In silence, while she watch'd their 

arms far-off 
Sparkle, until they dipt below the 

downs. 
Then to her tower she climb'd, and 

took the shield, 
There kept it, and so lived in fantasy. 

Meanwhile the new companions 

past away 
Far o'er the long backs of the bushless 

downs, 
To where Sir Lancelot knew there 

lived a knight 
Not far from Camel ot, now for forty 

years 400 

A hermit, who had pray'd, labor'd and 

pray'd, 
And ever laboring had scoop'd himself 
In the white rock a chapel and a 

hall 
On massive columns, like a shore-cliff 

cave, 
And cells and chambers. All were 

fair and dry ; 
The green light from the meadows 

underneath 
Struck up and lived along the milky 

roofs ; 
And in the meadows tremulous aspen- 
trees 






LANCELOT AND ELAINE 



495 



And poplars made a noise of falling 

showers. 
And thither wending there that night 

they bode. 410 

But when the next day broke from 

underground, 
And shot red fire and shadows thro' 

the cave, 
They rose, heard mass, broke fast, and 

rode away. 
Then Lancelot saying, 'Hear, but 

hold my name 
Hidden, you ride with Lancelot of the 

Lake/ 
Abash' d Lavaine, whose instant rever- 
ence, 
Dearer to true young hearts than their 

own praise, 
But left him leave to stammer,.' Is it 

indeed ? ' 
And after muttering, 'The great 

Lancelot,' 
At last he got his breath and answerd : 

1 One, 420 

One have I seen — that other, our liege 

lord, 
The dread Pendragon, Britain's King 

of kings, 
Of whom the people talk mysteri- 
ously, 
He will be there — then were I stricken 

blind 
That minute, I might say that I had 

seen.' 

So spake Lavaine, and when they 

reach'd the lists 
By Camelot in the meadow, let his 

eyes 
Run thro' the peopled gallery which 

half round 
Lay like a rainbow fallen upon the 

grass, 
Until they found the clear-faced King, 

who sat 430 

Robed in red samite, easily to be 

known, 
Since to his crown the golden dragon 

clung, 
And down his robe the dragon writhed 

in gold, 
And from the carven-work behind him 

crept 
Two dragons gilded, sloping down to 

make 



Arms for his chair, while all the rest 
of them 

Thro' knots and loops and folds in- 
numerable 

Fled ever thro' the woodwork, till they 
found 

The new design wherein they lost 
themselves, 

Yet with all ease, so tender was the 
work ; 44 o 

And, in the costly canopy o'er him set, 

Blazed the last diamond of the name- 
less king. 

Then Lancelot answer'd young La- 
vaine and said : 
' Me you call great ; mine is the firmer 

seat, 
The truer lance ; but there is many a 

youth 
Now crescent, who will come to all I 

am 
And overcome it; and in me there 

dwells 
No greatness, save it be some far-off 

touch 
Of greatness to know well I am not 

great. 
There is the man/ And Lavaine 

gaped upon him 450 

As on a thing miraculous, and anon 
The trumpets blew ; and then did 

either side, 
They that assail'd, and they that held 

the lists, 
Set lance in rest, strike spur, suddenly 

move, 
Meet in the midst, and there so fu- 
riously 
Shock that a man far-off might well 

perceive, 
If any man that day were left afield, 
The hard earth shake, and a low 

thunder of arms. 
And Lancelot bode a little, till he saw 
Which were the weaker; then he 

hurl'd into it 460 

Against the stronger. Little need to 

speak 
Of Lancelot in his glory ! King, duke, 

earl, 
Count, baron — whom he smote, he 

overthreAv. 

But in the field were Lancelot's 
kith and kin, 



49 6 



IDYLLS OF THE KING 



Ranged with the Table Round that 

held the lists, 
Strong men, and wrathful that a 

stranger knight 
Should do and almost overdo the deeds 
Of Lancelot ; and one said to the other, 

<Lo! 
What is he ? I do not mean the force 

alone — 
The grace and versatility of the man ! 
Is it not Lancelot ? ' ' When has Lan- 
celot worn 471 
Favor of any lady in the lists ? 
Not such his wont, as we that know 

him know/ 
' How then ? who then ? ' a fury seized 

them all, 
A fiery family passion for the name 
Of Lancelot, and a glory one with 

theirs. 
They couch'd their spears and prick' d 

their steeds, and thus, 
Their plumes driven backward by the 

wind they made 
In moving, all together down upon 

him 
Bare, as a wild wave in the wide 

North Sea, 480 

Green-glimmering toward the summit, 

bears, with all 
Its stormy crests that smoke against 

the skies, 
Down on a bark, and overbears the 

bark 
And him that helms it ; so they over- 
bore 
Sir Lancelot and his charger, and a 

spear 
Down-glancing lamed the charger, 

and a spear 
Prick'd sharply his own cuirass, and 

the head 
Pierced thro' his side, and there snapt 

and remain'd. 

Then Sir Lavaine did well and wor- 

shipfully. 
He bore a knight of old repute to the 

earth, 490 

And brought his horse to Lancelot 

where he lay. 
He up the side, sweating with agony, 

got, 
But thought to do while he might yet 

endure, 
And being lustily holpen by the rest, 



His party, — tho' it seem'd half -miracle 
To those he fought with, — drave his 

kith and kin, 
And all the Table Round that held 

the lists, 
Back to the barrier ; then the trumpets 

blew 
Proclaiming his the prize who wore 

the sleeve 
Of scarlet and the pearls ; and all the 

knights, 500 

His party, cried, 'Advance and take 

thy prize 
The diamond ; ' but he answer'd : 

' Diamond me 
No diamonds ! for God's love, a little 

air! 
Prize me no prizes, for my prize is 

death ! 
Hence will I, and I charge you, fol- 
low me not.' 

He spoke, and vanish'd suddenly 

from the field 
With young Lavaine into the poplar 

grove. 
There from his charger down he slid, 

and sat, 
Gasping to Sir Lavaine, 'Draw the 

lance -head.' 
'Ah, my sweet lord Sir Lancelot,' 

said Lavaine, 510 

1 1 dread me, if I draw it, you will die.' 
But he, ' I die already with it ; draw — 
Draw,' — and Lavaine drew, and Sir 

Lancelot gave 
A marvellous great shriek and ghastly 

groan, 
And half his blood burst forth, and 

down he sank 
For the pure pain, and wholly swoon' d 

away. 
Then came the hermit out and bare 

him in, 
There stanch' d his wound ; and there, 

in daily doubt 
Whether to live or die, for many a 

week 
Hid from the wild world's rumor by 

the grove 520 

Of poplars with their noise of falling 

showers, 
And ever- tremulous aspen-trees, he lay. 

But on that day when Lancelot fled 
the lists, 



LANCELOT AND ELAINE 



497 



His party, knights of utmost North 
and West, 

Lords of waste marshes, kings of de- 
solate isles, 

Came round their great Pendragon, 
saying to him, 

' Lo, Sire, our knight, thro' whom we 
won the day, 

Hath gone sore wounded, and hath 
left his prize 

Untaken, crying that his prize is 
death.' 

' Heaven hinder,' said the King, ' that 
such an one, 530 

So great a knight as we have seen to- 
day- 
He seem'd to me another Lancelot — 

Yea, twenty times I thought him 
Lancelot — 

He must not pass uncared for. Where- 
fore rise, 

Gawain, and ride forth and find the 

knight, 
Wounded and wearied, needs must he 
be near. 

1 charge you that you get at once to 

horse. 
And, knights and kings, there breathes 

not one of you 
Will deem this prize of ours is rashly 

given ; 
His prowess was too wondrous. We 

will do him 540 

No customary honor ; since the knight 
Came not to us, of us to claim the 

prize, 
Ourselves will send it after. Rise and 

take 
This diamond, and deliver it, and re- 
turn, 
And bring us where he is, and how 

he fares, 
And cease not from your quest until 

ye find .' 

So saying, from the carven flower 

above, 
To which it made a restless heart, he 

took 
And gave the diamond. Then from 

where he sat 
At Arthur's right, with smiling face 

arose, 550 

With smiling face and frowning heart, 

a prince 



In the mid might and flourish of his 

May, 
Gawain, surnamed the Courteous, fair 

and strong, 
And after Lancelot, Tristram, and 

Geraint, 
And Gareth, a good knight, but there- 
withal 
Sir Modred's brother, and the child of 

Lot, 
Nor often loyal to his word, and 

now 
Wroth that the King's command to 

saily forth 
In quest of whom he knew not, made 

him leave 
The banquet and concourse of knights 

and kings. 560 

So all in wrath he got to horse and 

went; 
While Arthur to the banquet, dark in 

mood, 
Past, thinking, 'Is it Lancelot who 

hath come 
Despite the wound he spake of, all 

for gain 
Of glory, and hath added wound to 

wound, 
And ridden away to die ? ' So f ear d 

the King, 
And, after two days' tarriance there, 

return'd. 
Then when he saw the Queen, em- 
bracing ask'd, 
'Love, are you yet so sick?' 'Nay, 

lord,' she said. 
' And where is Lancelot ? ' Then the 

Queen amazed, 570 

1 Was he not with you ? won he not 

your prize ?' 
'Nay, but one like him.' 'Why, that 

like was he.' 
And when the King demanded how 

she knew, 
Said: 'Lord, no sooner had ye parted 

from us 
Than Lancelot told me of a common 

talk 
That men went down before his spear 

at a touch, 
But knowing he was Lancelot ; his 

great name 
Conquer' d ; and therefore would he 

hide his name 



49 8 



IDYLLS OF THE KING 



From all men, even the King, and to 

this end 
Had made the pretext of a hindering 

wound, 580 

That he might joust unknown of all, 

and learn 
If his old prowess were in aught de- 

cay'd ; 
And added, "Our true Arthur, when 

he learns, 
Will well allow my pretext, as for 

gain 
Of purer glory." ' 

Then replied the King : 
' Far lovelier in our Lancelot had it 

been, 
In lieu of idly dallying with the truth, 
To have trusted me as he hath trusted 

thee. 
Surely his King and most familiar 

friend 
Might well have kept his secret. 

True, indeed, 590 

Albeit I know my knights fantasti- 
cal, 
So fine a fear in our large Lancelot 
Must needs have moved my laughter ; 

now remains 
But little cause for laughter. His own 

kin — 
111 news, my Queen, for all who love 

him, this ! — 
His kith and kin, not knowing, set 

upon him ; 
So that he went sore wounded from 

the field. 
Yet good news too ; for goodly hopes 

are mine 
That Lancelot is no more a lonely 

heart. 
He wore, against his wont, upon his 

helm 600 

A sleeve of scarlet, broider'd with 

great pearls, 
Some gentle maiden's gift.' 

1 Yea, lord,' she said, 
* Thy hopes are mine,' and saying 

that, she choked, 
And sharply turn'd about to hide her 

face, 
Past to her chamber, and there flung 

herself 
Down on the great King's couch, and 

writhed upon it, 



And clench'd her fingers till they bit 

the palm, 
And shriek' d out ' Traitor ! ' to the 

unhearing wall, 
Then flash'd into wild tears, and rose 

again, 
And moved about her palace, proud 

and pale. 610 

Gawain the while thro' all the region 

round 
Rode with his diamond, wearied of the 

quest, 
Touch' d at all points except the pop- 
lar grove, 
And came at last, tho' late, to Astolat ; 
Whom glittering in enamell'd arms 

the maid 
Glanced at, and cried, ' What news 

from Came lot, lord ? 
What of the knight with the red 

sleeve ? ' ' He won.' 
' I knew it,' she said. "But parted 

from the jousts 
Hurt in the side ; ' whereat she caught 

her breath. 
Thro' her own side she felt the sharp 

lance go. 620 

Thereon she smote her hand; well- 
nigh she swoon' d. 
And, while he gazed wonderingly at 

her, came 
The Lord of Astolat out, to whom the 

prince 
Reported who he was, and on what 

quest 
Sent, that he bore the prize and could 

not find 
The victor, but had ridden a random 

round 
To seek him, and had wearied of the 

search. 
To whom the Lord of Astolat : 'Bide 

with us, 
And ride no more at random, noble 

prince ! 
Here was the knight, and here he left 

a shield ; 630 

This will he send or come for. Fur- 
thermore 
Our son is with him; we shall hear 

anon, 
Needs must we hear.' To this the 

courteous prince 
Accorded with his wonted courtesy, 
Courtesy with a touch of traitor in it, 






LANCELOT AND ELAINE 



499 



And staid; and cast his eyes on fair 

Elaine ; 
Where could be found face daintier ? 

then her shape 
From forehead down to foot, perfect 

— again 
From foot to forehead exquisitely 

turn'd : 
< ^11 — if I bide, lo ! this wild flower 

for me!' 6 4 o 

And oft they met among the garden 

yews, 
And there he set himself to play upon 

her 
With sallying wit, free flashes from a 

height 
Above her, graces of the court, and 

songs, 
Sighs, and low smiles, and golden elo- 
quence 
And amorous adulation, till the maid 
Rebell'd against it, saying to him : 

' Prince, 
O loyal nephew of our noble King, 
Why ask you not to see the shield he 

left, 
Whence you might learn his name ? 

Why slight your King, 650 

And lose the quest he sent you on, 

and prove 
No surer than our falcon yesterday, 
Who lost the hern we slipt her at, and 

went 
To all the winds?' 'Nay, by mine 

head/ said he, 
' I lose it, as we lose the lark in hea- 
ven, 
O damsel, in the light of your blue 

eyes ; 
But an ye will it let me see the shield.' 
And when the shield was brought, 

and Gawain saw 
Sir Lancelot's azure lions, crown'd 

with gold, 
Ramp in the field, he smote his thigh, 

and mock'd : 660 

' Right was the King ! our Lancelot ! 

that true man ! ' 
'And right was 1/ she answer'd mer- 
rily, ' I, 
Who dream'd my knight the greatest 

knight of all.' 
' And if / dream'd,' said Gawain, 

' that you love 
This greatest knight, your pardon ! 

lo, ye know it ! 



Speak therefore; shall 1 waste myself 

in vain V ' 
Full simple was her answer : ' What 

know I ? 
My brethren have been all my fellow- 
ship ; 
And I, when often they have talk'd 

of love, 
Wish'd it had been my mother, for 

they talk'd, 670 

Mcseem'd, of what they knew not ; 

so myself — 
I know not if I know what true love 

is, 
But if I know, then, if I love not 

him, 
I know there is none other I can 

love.' 
'Yea, by God's death,' said he, 'ye 

love him well, 
But would not, knew ye what all 

others know, 
And whom he loves.' 'So be it,' cried 

Elaine, 
And lifted her fair face and moved 

away ; 
But he pursued her, calling, ' Stay a 

little ! 
One golden minute's grace ! he wore 

your sleeve. 680 

Would he break faith with one I may 

not name V 
Must our true man change like a leaf 

at last ? 
Nay — like enow. Why then, far be 

it from me 
To cross our mighty Lancelot in his 

loves ! 
And, damsel, for I deem you know 

full well 
Where your great knight is hidden, 

let me leave 
My quest with you ; the diamond also 

— here ! 
For if you love, it will be sweet to 

give it ; 
And if he love, it will be sweet to 

have it 
From your own hand ; and whether 

he love or not, 690 

A diamond is a diamond. Fare you 

well 
A thousand times ! — a thousand times 

farewell ! 
Yet, if he love, and his love hold, we 

two 



5°° 



IDYLLS OF THE KING 



May meet at court hereafter ! there, I 

think, 
So ye will learn the courtesies of the 

court, 
We two shall know each other. ' 

Then he gave, 
And slightly kiss'd the hand to which 

he gave, 
The diamond, and all wearied of the 

quest 
Leapt on his horse, and carolling as 

he went 
A true-love ballad, lightly rode away. 

Thence to the court he past ; there 
told the King 701 

What the King knew, ' Sir Lancelot 
is the knight.' 

And added, ' Sire, my liege, so much 
I learnt, 

But fail'.d to find him, tho' I rode all 
round 

The region ; but I lighted on the maid 

Whose sleeve he wore. She loves 
him ; and to her, 

Deeming our courtesy is the truest 
law, 

I gave the diamond. She will render 
it; 

For by mine head she knows his hid- 
ing-place.' 

The seldom-frowning King frown'd, 

and replied, 710 

' Too courteous truly ! ye shall go no 

more 
On quest of mine, seeing that ye forget 
Obedience is the courtesy due to kings. ' 

He spake and parted. Wroth, but 
all in awe, 

For twenty strokes of the blood, with- 
out a word, 

Linger'd that other, staring after him ; 

Then shook his hair, strode off, and 
buzz'd abroad 

About the maid of Astolat, and her 
love. 

All ears were prick'd at once, all 
tongues were loosed : 

' The maid of Astolat loves Sir Lance- 
lot, 720 

Sir Lancelot loves the maid of Astolat.' 

Some read the King's face, some the 
Queen's, and all 



Had marvel what the maid might be, 

but most 
Predoom'd her as unworthy. One old 

dame 
Came suddenly on the Queen with the 

sharp news. 
She, that had heard the noise of it 

before, 
But sorrowing Lancelot should have 

stoop'd so low, 
Marr'd her friend's aim with pale tran- 
quillity. 
So ran the tale like fire about the court, 
Fire in dry stubble a nine-days' won- 
der flared ; 730 
Till even the knights at banquet twice 

or thrice 
Forgot to drink to Lancelot and the 

Queen, 
And pledging Lancelot and the lily 

maid 
Smiled at each other, while the Queen, 

who sat 
With lips severely placid, felt the knot 
Climb in her throat, and with her feet 

unseen 
Crush' d the wild passion out against 

the floor 
Beneath the banquet, where the meats 

became 
As wormwood and she hated all who 

pledged. 739 

But far away the maid in Astolat, 
Her guiltless rival, she that ever 

kept 
The one-day-seen Sir Lancelot in her 

heart, 
Crept to her father, while he mused 

alone, 
Sat on his knee, stroked his gray face 

and said : 
'Father, you call me wilful, and the 

fault 
Is yours who let me have my will, and 

now, 
Sweet father, will you let me lose my 

wits ? ' 
'Nay,' said he, 'surely.' 'Wherefore, 

let me hence,' 
She answer' d, ' and find out our dear 

Lavaine.' 
'Ye will not lose your wits for dear 

Lavaine. 750 

Bide,' answer'd he: 'we needs must 

hear anon 



LANCELOT AND ELAINE 



5 QI 



Of him, and of that other.' l Ay,' she 

said, 
' And of that other, for I needs must 

• hence 

And find that other, wheresoe'erhebe, 
And with mine own hand give his dia- 
mond to him, 
Lest I be found as faithless in the 

quest 
As yon proud prince who left the 

quest to me. 
Sweet father, I behold him in my 

dreams 
Gaunt as it were the skeleton of him- 
self, 
Death-pale, for the lack of gentle 

maiden's aid. 760 

The gentler-born the maiden, the more 

bound, 
My father, to be sweet and serviceable 
To noble knights in sickness, as ye 

know, 
When these have worn their tokens. 

Let me hence, 
I pray you.' Then her father nodding 

said: 
* Ay, ay, the diamond. Wit ye well, 

my child, 
Right fain were I to learn this knight 

were whole, 
Being our greatest. Yea, and you 

must give it — 
And sure I think this fruit is hung too 

high 
For any mouth to gape for save a 

queen's — 770 

Nay, I mean nothing ; so then, get you 

gone, 
Being so very wilful you must go. ' 

Lightly, her suit allow' d, she slipt 

away, 
And while she made her ready for her 

ride 
Her father's latest word humm'd in 

her ear, 
' Being so very wilful you must go/ 
And changed itself and echo'd in her 

heart, 
' Being so very wilful you must die.' 
But she was happy enough and shook 

it off, 
As we shake off the bee that buzzes 

at us ; 780 

And in her heart she answer'd it and 

said, 



' What matter, so I help him back to 

life ? ' 
Then far away with good Sir Torre 

for guide 
Rode o'er the long backs of the bush- 
less downs 
To Camelot, and before the city-gates 
Came on her brother with a happy face 
Making a roan horse caper and curvet 
For pleasure all about a field of flow- 
ers ; 
Whom when she saw, f Lavaine,' she 

cried, 'Lavaine, 
How fares my lord Sir Lancelot ? ' 

He amazed, 79 o 

' Torre and Elaine ! why here ? Sir 

Lancelot ! 
How know ye my lord's name is Lan- 
celot ? ' 
But when the maid had told him all 

her tale, 
Then turn'd Sir Torre, and being in 

his moods 
Left them, and under the strange- 

statued gate, 
Where Arthur's wars were render'd 

mystically, 
Past up the still rich city to his kin, 
His own far blood, which dwelt at 

Camelot ; 
And her, Lavaine across the poplar 

grove 
Led to the caves. There first she saw 

the casque 800 

Of Lancelot on the wall; her scarlet 

sleeve, 
Tho' carved and cut, and half the 

pearls away, 
Stream'd from it still; and in her 

heart she laugh'd, 
Because he had not loosed it from his 

helm, 
But meant once more perchance to 

tourney in it. 
And when they gain'd the cell wherein 

he slept, 
His battle-writhen arms and mighty 

hands 
Lay naked on the wolf-skin, and a 

dream 
Of dragging down his enemy made 

them move. 
Then she that saw him lying unsleek, 

unshorn, 810 

Gaunt as it were the skeleton of him- 
self, 



502 



IDYLLS OF THE KING 



Utter'd a little tender dolorous cry. 
The sound not wonted in a place so 

still 
Woke the sick knight, and while he 

roll'd his eyes 
Yet blank from sleep, she started to 

him, saying, 
' Your prize the diamond sent you by 

the King.' 
His eyes glisten' d ; she fancied, ' Is it 

for me ? ' 
And when the maid had told him all 

the tale 
Of king and prince, the diamond sent, 

the quest 
Assign'd to her not worthy of it, she 

knelt 820 

Full lowly by the corners of his bed, 
And laid the diamond in his open hand. 
Her face was near, and as we kiss the 

child 
That does the task assign'd, he kiss'd 

her face. 
At once she slipt like water to the floor. 
•Alas/ he said, 'your ride hath wea- 
ried you. 
Rest must you have/ ' No rest for me,' 

sne said ; 
' Nay, for near you, fair lord, I am at 

rest.' 
What might she mean by that ? his 

large black eyes, 
Yet larger thro' his leanness, dwelt 

upon her, 830 

Till all her heart's sad secret blazed 

itself 
In the heart's colors on her simple face ; 
And Lancelot look'd and was per- 

plext in mind, 
And being weak in body said no more, 
But did not love the color ; woman's 

love, 
Save one, he not regarded, and so 

turn'd 
Sighing, and feign'd a sleep until he 

slept. 

Then rose Elaine and glided thro' 
the fields, 

And past beneath the weirdly-sculp- 
tured gates 

Far up the dim ich city to her kin ; 

There bode the night, but woke with 
dawn, and past 84 1 

Down thro' the dim rich city to the 
fields, 



Thence to the cave. So day by day 

she past 
In either twilight ghost-like to and fro 
Gliding, and every day she tended him, 
And likewise many a night ; and Lan- 
celot 
Would, tho' he call'd his wound a little 

hurt 
Whereof he should be quickly whole, 

at times 
Brain-feverous in his heat and agony, 

seem 
Uncourteous, even he. But the meek 

maid 850 

Sweetly forbore him ever, being to 

him 
Meeker than any child to a rough 

nurse, 
Milder than any mother to a sick 

child, 
And never woman yet, since man's 

first fall, 
Did kindlier unto man, but her deep 

love 
Upbore her ; till the hermit, skill'd in 

all 
The simples and the science of that 

time, 
Told him that her fine care had saved 

his life. 
And the sick man forgot her simple 

blush, 
Would call her friend and sister, sweet 

Elaine, 860 

Would listen for her coming and re- 
gret 
Her parting step, and held her ten- 
derly, 
And loved her with all love except 

the love 
Of man and woman when they love 

their best, 
Closest and sweetest, and had died 

the death 
In any knightly fashion for her sake. 
And peradventure had he seen her 

first 
She might have made this and that 

other world 
Another world for the sick man ; but 

now 
The shackles of an old love straiten'd 

him, 870 

His honor rooted in dishonor stood, 
And faith unfaithful kept him falsely 

true. 



LANCELOT AND ELAINE 



S03 



Yet the great knight in his mid- 
sickness made 

Full many a holy vow and pure re- 
solve. 

These, as but born of sickness, could 
not live ; 

For when the blood ran lustier in him 
again, 

Full often the bright image of one 
face, 

Making a treacherous quiet in his 
heart, 

Dispersed his resolution like a cloud. 



Then if the maiden, while that ghostly 
grace 880 

Beam'd on his fancy, spoke, he an- 
swer' d not, 

Or short and coldly, and she knew 
right well 

What the rough sickness meant, but 
what this meant 

She knew not, and the sorrow dimm'd 
her sight, 

And drave her ere her time across the 
fields 

Far into the rich city, where alone 




• Day by day she past 
In either twilight ghost-like to and fro ' 



5°4 



IDYLLS OF THE KING 



She murmur' d, ' Vain, in vain ! it 

cannot be. 
He will not love me. How then? 

must I die ? ' 
Then as a little helpless innocent bird, 
That has but one plain passage of few 

notes, 890 

Will sing the simple passage o'er and 

o'er 
For all an April morning, till the ear 
Wearies to hear it, so the simple maid 
Went half the night repeating, ' Must 

I die ? ' 
And now to right she turn'd, and now 

to left, 
And found no ease in turning or in rest ; 
And • Him or death,' she mutter' d, 

1 death or him,' 
Again and like a burthen, 'Him or 

death.' 

But when Sir Lancelot's deadly hurt 

was whole, 
To Astolat returning rode the three. 
There morn by morn, arraying her 

sweet self 901 

In that wherein she deem'd she look'd 

her best, 
She came before Sir Lancelot, for she 

thought, 
'If I be loved, these are my festal 

robes, 
If not, the victim's flowers before he 

fall.' 
And Lancelot ever prest upon the 

maid 
That she should ask some goodly gift 

of him 
For her own self or hers : ■ and do 

not shun 
To speak the wish most near to your 

true heart ; 
Such service have ye done me that I 

make 910 

My will of yours, and prince and lord 

am I 
In mine own land, and what I will I 

can.' 
Then like a ghost she lifted up her 

face, 
But like a ghost without the power to 

speak. 
And Lancelot saw that she withheld 

her wish, 
And bode among them yet a little 

space 



Till he should learn it ; and one morn 

it chanced 
He found her in among the garden 

yews, 
And said, 'Delay no longer, speak 

your wish, 
Seeing I go to-day.' Then out she 

brake : 920 

' Going ? and we shall never see you 

more. 
And I must die for want of one bold 

word.' 
' Speak ; that I live to hear,' he said, 

' is yours. ' 
Then suddenly and passionately she 

spoke : 
' I have gone mad. I love you ; let 

me die.' 
' Ah, sister,' answer'd Lancelot, ' what 

is this ? ' 
And innocently extending her white 

arms, 
'Your love,' she said, 'your love — 

to be your wife.' 
And Lancelot answer'd, ' Had I chosen 

to wed, 
I had been wedded earlier, sweet 

Elaine ; 930 

But now there never will be wife of 

mine.' 
' No, no, ' she cried, ' I care not to be 

wife, 
But to be with you still, to see your 

face, 
To serve you, and to follow you thro' 

the world.' 
And Lancelot answer'd : * ' Nay, the 

world, the world, 
All ear and eye, with such a stupid 

heart 
To interpret ear and eye, and such a 

tongue 
To blare its own interpretation — 

nay, 
Full ill then should I quit your bro- 
ther's love, 
And your good father's kindness.' 

And she said, 940 

' Not to be with you, not to see your 

face — 
Alas for me then, my good days are 

done ! ' 
'Nay, noble maid,' he answer'd, 'ten 

times nay ! 
This is not love, but love's first flash 

in youth, 



LANCELOT AND ELAINE 



505 



Most common ; yea, I know it of 
mine own self, 

And you yourself will smile at your 
own self 

Hereafter, when you yield your flower 
of life 

To one more fitly yours, not thrice 
your age. 

And then will I, for true you are and 
sweet 

Beyond mine old belief in woman- 
hood, 950 

More specially should your good 
knight be poor, 

Endow you with broad land and ter- 
ritory 

Even to the half my realm beyond the 
seas, 

So that would make you happy ; fur- 
thermore, 

Even to the death, as tho' ye were my 
blood, 

In all your quarrels will I be your 
knight. 

This will I do, dear damsel, for your 
sake, 

And more than this I cannot/ 

While he spoke 
She neither blush' d nor shook, but 

deathly-pale 
Stood grasping what was nearest, then 

replied, 960 

1 Of all this will I nothing ; ' and so fell, 
And thus they bore her swooning to 

her tower. 

Then spake, to whom thro' those 
black walls of yew 

Their talk had pierced, her father : 
' Ay, a flash, 

I fear me, that will strike my blossom 
dead. 

Too courteous are ye, fair Lord Lance- 
lot. 

I P r ay you, use some rough discour- 
tesy 

To blunt or break her passion.' 

Lancelot said, 
' That were against me ; what I can I 

will ; ' 
And there that day remain'd, and 

toward even 97 o 

Sent for his shield. Full meekly rose 

the maid, 



Stript off the case, and gave the 

naked shield ; 
Then, when she heard his horse upon 

the stones, 
Unclasping flung the casement back, 

and look'd 
Down on his helm, from which her 

sleeve had gone. 
And Lancelot knew the little clinking 

sound ; 
And she by tact of love was well 

aware 
That Lancelot knew that she was look- 
ing at him. 
And yet he glanced not up, nor waved 

his hand, 
Nor bade farewell, but sadly rode 

away. 980 

This was the one discourtesy that he 

used. 

So in her tower alone the maiden 

sat. 
His very shield was gone ; only the 

case, 
Her own poor work, her empty labor, 

left. 
But still she heard him, still his pic- 
ture form'd 
And grew between her and the pic- 
tured wall. 
Then came her father, saying in low 

tones, 
'Have comfort/ whom she greeted 

quietly. 
Then came her brethren saying, 

1 Peace to thee, 
Sweet sister,' whom she answer' d 

with all calm. 990 

But when they left her to herself 

again, 
Death, like a friend's voice from a 

distant field 
Approaching thro' the darkness, call'd; 

the owls 
Wailing had power upon her, and she 

mixt 
Her fancies with the sallow-rifted 

glooms 
Of evening and the moanings of the 

wind. 

And in those days she made a little 
song, 
And call'd her song * The Song of 
Love and Death,' 



506 



IDYLLS OF THE KING 



And sang it ; sweetly could she make 
and sing. 

' Sweet is true love tho' given in vain, in 
vain; iooo 

And sweet is death who puts an end to 
pain. 

I know not which is sweeter, no, not I. 

1 Love, art thou sweet ? then bitter death 
must be. 
Love, thou art bitter; sweet is death to me. 

Love, if death be sweeter, let me die. 

I Sweet love, that seems not made to 

fade away; 
Sweet death, that seems to make us love- 
less clay; 

1 know not which is sweeter, no, not I. 

I I fain would follow love, if that could 

be; 
I needs must follow death, who calls for 

me ; ioio 

Call and I follow, I follow! let me die.' 

High with the last line scaled her 

voice, and this, 
All in a fiery dawning Avild with wind 
That shook her tower, the brothers 

heard, and thought 
With shuddering, * Hark the Phantom 

of the house 
That ever shrieks before a death/ and 

call'd 
The father, and all three in hurry and 

fear 
Ran to her, and lo ! the blood-red light 

of dawn 
Flared on her face, she shrilling, ' Let 

me die ! ' 

As when we dwell upon a word we 

know, 1020 

Repeating, till the word we know so 

well 
Becomes a wonder, and we know not 

why, 
So dwelt the father on her face, and 

thought, 
1 Is this Elaine ? ' till back the maiden 

fell, 
Then gave a languid hand to each, 

and lay, 
Speaking a still good-morrow with 

her eyes. 
At last she said : ' Sweet brothers, 

yester-night 
I seem'd a curious little maid again, 



As happy as when we dwelt among 

the woods, 
And when ye used to take me with 

the flood 1030 

Up the great river in the boatman's 

boat. 
Only ye would not pass beyond the 

cape 
That has the poplar on it ; there ye fixt 
Your limit, oft returning with the tide. 
And yet I cried because ye would not 

pass 
Beyond it, and far up the shining flood 
Until we found the palace of the King. 
And yet ye would not ; but this night 

I dream' d 
That I was all alone upon the flood, 
And then I said, "Now shall I have 

my will ; " 1040 

And there I woke, but still the wish 

remain' d. 
So let me hence that I may pass at last 
Beyond the poplar and far up the flood, 
Until I find the palace of the King. 
There will I enter in among them all, 
And no man there will dare to mock 

at me; 
But there the fine Gawain will wonder 

at me, 
And there the great Sir Lancelot muse 

at me; 
Gawain, who bade a thousand fare- 
wells to me, 
Lancelot, who coldly went, nor bade 

me one. 1050 

And there the King will know me 

and my love, 
And there the Queen herself will pity 

me, 
And all the gentle court will welcome 

me, 
And after my long voyage I shall rest ! ' 

'Peace,' said her father, 'O my 

child, ye seem 
Light-headed, for what force is yours 

to go 
So far, being sick ? and wherefore 

would ye look 
On this proud fellow again, w T ho scorns 

us all ? ' 

Then the rough Torre began to 
heave and move, 
And bluster into stormy sobs and 
say: 



LANCELOT AND ELAINE 



507 



* I never loved him ; an I meet with 

him, 1061 

I care not howsoever great he be, 
Then will I strike at him and strike 

him down. 
Give me good fortune, I will strike 

him dead, 
For this discomfort he hath done the 

house. ' 

To whom the gentle sister made 

» reply : 

' Fret not yourself, dear brother, nor 
. be wroth, 
Seeing it is no more Sir Lancelot's fault 
Not to love me than it is mine to love 
Him of all men who seems to me the 
highest. ' 1070 

* Highest ? ' the father answer'd, 

echoing ' highest ? ' — 
He meant to break the passion in her 

— ' nay, 
Daughter, I know not what you call 

the highest ; 
But this I know, for all the people 

know it, 
He loves the Queen, and in an open 

shame, 
And she returns his love in open shame ; 
If this be high, what is it to be low ? ' 

Then spake the lily maid of Astolat : 
1 Sweet father, all too faint and sick 

am I 
For anger. These are slanders ; never 

yet 1080 

Was noble man but made ignoble talk. 
He makes no friend who never made 

a foe. 
But now it is my glory to have loved 
One peerless, without stain ; so let me 

pass, 
My father, howsoe'er I seem to you, 
Not all unhappy, having loved God's 

best 
And greatest, tho' my love had no re- 
turn. 
Yet, seeing you desire your child to 

live, 
Thanks, but you work against your 

own desire, 
For if I could believe the things you 

say 1090 

I should but die the sooner ; wherefore 

cease, 



Sweet father, and bid call the ghostly 

man 
Hither, and let me shrive me clean 

and die.' 

J3o when the ghostly man had come 
and gone, 

She, with a face bright as for sin for- 
given, 

Besought Lavaine to write as she de- 
vised 

A letter, word for word ; and when he 
ask'd, 

1 Is it for Lancelot, is it for my dear 
lord? 

Then will I bear it gladly ; ' she re- 
plied, 

' For Lancelot and the Queen and all 
the world, uoo 

But I myself must bear it. ' Then he 
wrote 

The letter she devised ; which being 
writ 

And folded, 'O sweet father, tender 
and true, 

Deny me not,' she said — ' ye never yet 

Denied my fancies — this, however 
strange, 

My latest. Lay the letter in my hand 

A little ere I die, and close the hand 

Upon it ; I shall guard it even in death. 

And when the heat has gone from out 
my heart, 

Then take the little bed on which I died 

For Lancelot's love, and deck it like 
the Queen's mi 

For richness, and me also like the 
Queen 

In all I have of rich, and lay me on 
it. 

And let there be prepared a chariot- 
bier 

To take me to the river, and a barge 

Be ready on the river, clothed in black. 

I go in state to court, to meet the 
Queen. 

There surely I shall speak for mine 
own self, 

And none of you can speak for me so 
well. 

And therefore let our dumb old man 
alone 1120 

Go with me ; he can steer and row, 
and he 

Will guide me to that palace, to the 
doors. ' 



5 o8 



IDYLLS OF THE KING 



She ceased. Her father promised ; 

whereupon 
She grew so cheerful that they deem' d 

her death 
Was rather in the fantasy than the 

blood. 
But ten slow mornings past, and on 

the eleventh 
Her father laid the letter in her hand, 
And closed the hand upon it, and she 

died. 
So that day there was dole in Astolat. 

But when the next sun brake from 
underground, 1130 

Then, those two brethren slowly with 
bent brows 

Accompanying, the sad chariot-bier 

Past like a shadow thro' the field, that 
shone 

Full -summer, to that stream whereon 
the barge, 

Pall'd all its length in blackest samite, 
lay. 

There sat the lifelong creature of the 
house, 

Loyal, the dumb old servitor, on deck, 

Winking his eyes, and twisted all his 
face. 

So those two brethren from the chariot 
took 

And on the black decks laid her in her 
bed, 1140 

Set in her hand a lily, o'er her hung 

The silken case with braided blazon- 
ings, 

And kiss'd her quiet brows, and say- 
ing to her, 

1 Sister, farewell forever,' and again, 

1 Farewell, sweet sister/ parted all in 
tears. 

Then rose the dumb old servitor, and 
the dead, 

Oar'd by the dumb, went upward with 
the flood — 

In her right hand the lily, in her left 

The letter — all her bright hair stream- 
ing down — 

And all the coverlid was cloth of 
gold 1 1 50 

Drawn to her waist, and she herself in 
white 

All but her face, and that clear-fea- 
tured face 

Was lovely, for she did not seem as 
dead, 



But fast asleep, and lay as tho' she 
smiled. 

That day Sir Lancelot at the palace 

craved 
Audience of Guinevere, to give at last 
The price of half a realm, his costly 

gift, 
Hard- won and hardly won with bruise 

and blow, 
With deaths of others, and almost his 

own, 
The nine- years -fought -for diamonds ; 

for he saw n6o 

One of her house, and sent him to the 

Queen 
Bearing his wish, whereto the Queen 

agreed 
With such and so unmoved a majesty 
She might have seem'd her statue, but 

that he, 
Low-drooping till he wellnigh kiss'd 

her feet 
For loyal awe, saw with a sidelong eye 
The shadow of some piece of pointed 

lace, 
In the Queen's shadow, vibrate on the 

walls, 
And parted, laughing in his courtly 

heart. 

All in an oriel on the summer side, 1170 
Vine-clad, of Arthur's palace toward 

the stream, 
They met, and Lancelot kneeling 

utter'd: 'Queen, 
Lady, my liege, in whom I have my joy, 
Take, what I had not won except for 

you, 
These jewels, and make me happy, 

making them 
An armlet for the roundest arm on 

earth, 
Or necklace for a neck to which the 

swan's 
Is tawnier than her cygnet's. These 

are words ; 
Your beauty is your beauty, and I sin 
In speaking, yet O, grant my worship 

of it 1 180 

Words, as we grant grief tears. Such 

sin in words 
Perchance, we both can pardon ; but, 

my Queen, 
I hear of rumors flying thro' your 

court. 



LANCELOT AND ELAINE 



5°9 




' She did not seem as dead, 
But fast asleep ' 



Our bond, as not the bond of man and 
wife, 

Should have in it an absoluter trust 

To make up that defect : let rumors be. 

When did not rumors fly ? these, as I 
trust 

That you trust me in your own noble- 
ness, 

I may not well believe that you believe. ' 

While thus he spoke, half turn'd 
away, the Queen 1190 



Brake from the vast oriel-embowering 
vine 

Leaf after leaf, and tore, and cast 
them off, 

Till all the place whereon she stood 
was green ; 

Then, when he ceased, in one cold pas- 
sive hand 

Received at once and laid aside the 
gems 

There on a table near her, and re- 
plied : 



5™ 



IDYLLS OF THE KING 



' It may be I am quicker of belief 
Than you believe me, Lancelot of the 

Lake. 
Our bond is not the bond of man and 

wife. 
This good is in it, whatsoe'er of ill, 1200 
It can be broken easier. I for you 
This many a year have done despite 

and wrong 
To one whom ever in my heart of 

hearts 
I did acknowledge nobler. What are 

these ? 
Diamonds for me ! they had been thrice 

their worth 
Being your gift, had you not lost your 

own. 
To loyal hearts the value of all gifts 
Must vary as the giver's. Not for me ! 
For her ! for your new fancy. Only 

this 
Grant me, I pray you ; have your joys 

apart. 12 10 

I doubt not that, however changed, 

you keep 
So much of what is graceful ; and my- 
self 
Would shun to break those bounds of 

courtesy 
In which as Arthur's Queen I move 

and rule, 
So cannot speak my mind. An end to 

this! 
A strange one ! yet I take it with 

Amen. 
So pray you, add my diamonds to her 

pearls ; 
Deck her with these ; tell her, she 

shines me down : 
An armlet for an arm to which the 

Queen's 
Is haggard, or a necklace for a neck 1220 
O, as much fairer — as a faith once fair 
Was richer than these diamonds — hers 

not mine — 
Nay, bv the mother of our Lord him- 
self, 
Or hers or mine, mine now to work my 

will — 
She shall not have them.' 

. Saying which she seized, 
And, thro' the casement standing wide 

for heat, 
Flung them, and down they flash'd, 

and smote the stream. 



Then from the smitten surface flash'd, 

as it were, 
Diamonds to meet them, and they past 

away. 
Then while Sir Lancelot leant, in half 

disdain 1230 

At love, life, all things, on the window 

ledge, 
Close underneath his eyes, and right 

across 
Where these had fallen, slowly past 

the barge 
Whereon the lily maid of Astolat 
Lay smiling, like a star in blackest 

night. 

But the wild Queen, who saw not, 

burst away 
To weep and wail in secret ; and the 

barge, 
On to the palace-doorway sliding, 

paused. 
There two stood arm'd, and kept the 

door ; to whom, 
All up the marble stair, tier over 

tier, 1240 

Were added mouths that gaped, and 

eyes that ask'd, 
1 What is it ? ' but that oarsman's hag- 
gard face, 
As hard and still as is the face that 

men 
Shape to their fancy's eye from broken 

rocks 
On some cliff-side, appall'd them, and 

they said : 
1 He is enchanted, cannot speak — and 

she, 
Look how she sleeps — the Fairy 

Queen, so fair ! 
Yea, but how pale! what are they? 

flesh and blood ? 
Or come to take the King to Fairyland? 
For some do hold our Arthur cannot 

die, 1250 

But that he passes into Fairyland.' 

While thus they babbled of the King, 

the King 
Came girt with knights. Then turn'd 

the tongueless man 
From the half -face to the full eye, and 

rose 
And pointed to the damsel and the 

doors. 
So Arthur bade the meek Sir Percivale 



LANCELOT AND ELAINE 



5*i 



^nd pure Sir Galahad to uplift the 

maid; 
bid reverently they bore her into 

hall. 
Then came the fine Gawain and won- 

der'd at her, 
Ind Lancelot later came and mused at 
her, 1260 

bid last the Queen herself, and pitied 

her ; 
But Arthur spied the letter in her 

hand, 

Stoopt, took, brake seal, and read it ; 
this was all : 

1 Most noble lord, Sir Lancelot of the 
Lake, 

I, sometimes call'd the maid of Astolat, 
Come, for you left me taking no fare- 
well, • 
lither, to take my last farewell of 

you. 

I loved you, and my love had no re- 
turn, 
And therefore my true love has been 

my death. 
And therefore to our Lady Guine- 
vere, 1270 
And to all other ladies, I make moan : 
Pray for my soul, and yield me burial. 
Pray for my soul thou too, Sir Lancelot, 
As thou art a knight peerless.' 

Thus he read ; 
And ever in the reading lords and 

dames 
fept, looking often from his face who 

read 
To hers which lay so silent, and at 

times, 
So touch'd were they, half-thinking 

that her lips 
Who had devised the letter moved 

again. 

Then freely spoke Sir Lancelot to 
them all : 1280 

1 My lord liege Arthur, and all ye that 
hear, 

Know that for this most gentle maid- 
en's death 

Right heavy am I ; for good she was 
and true, 

But loved me with a love beyond all 
love 

In women, whomsoever I have known. 



Yet to be loved makes not to love 

again ; 
Not at my years, however it hold in 

youth. 
I swear by truth and knighthood that 

I gave 
No cause, not willingly, for such a 

love. 
To this I call my friends in testi- 
mony, 129a 
Her brethren, and her father, who 

himself 
Besought me to be plain and blunt, 

and use, 
To break her passion, some discourtesy 
Against my nature; what I could, I 

did. 
I left her and I bade her no farewell ; 
Tho', had I dreamt the damsel would 

have died, 
I might have put my wits to some 

rough use, 
And help'd her from herself.' 

Then said the Queen — 
Sea was her wrath, yet working after 

storm : 
' Ye might at least have done her so 

much grace, 1300 

Fair lord, as would have help'd her 

from her death.' 
He raised his head, their eyes met and 

hers fell, 
He adding : ' Queen, she would not be 

content 
Save that I wedded her, which could 

not be. 
Then might she follow me thro' the 

world, she ask'd ; 
It could not be. I told her that her 

love 
Was but the flash of youth, would 

darken down, 
To rise hereafter in a stiller flame 
Toward one more worthy of her — 

then would I, 
More specially were he she wedded 

poor. 13 10 

Estate them with large land and terri- 

, tory 
In mine own realm beyond the narrow 



To keep them in all joyance. More 

than this 
I could not ; this she would not, and 

she died.' 



5 12 



IDYLLS OF THE KING 



He pausing, Arthur answer'd : ' 

my knight, 
It will be to thy worship, as my 

knight, 
And mine, as head of all our Table 

Round, 
To see that she be buried worshipfully. 

So toward that shrine which then in 
all the realm 

Was richest, Arthur leading, slowly 
went 1320 

The marshall'd Order of their Table 
Round, 

And Lancelot sad beyond his wont, to 
see 

The maiden buried, not as one un- 
known, 

ISTor meanly, but with gorgeous obse- 
quies, 

And mass, and rolling music, like a 
queen. 

And when the knights had laid her 
comely head 

Low in the dust of half-forgotten 
kings, 

Then Arthur spake among them : ' Let 
her tomb 

Be costly, and her image thereupon, 

And let the shield of Lancelot at her 
feet 1330 

Be carven, and her lily in her hand. 

And let the story of her dolorous voy- 
age 

For all true hearts be blazon'd on her 
tomb 

In letters gold and azure ! ' which was 
wrought 

Thereafter ; but when now the lords 
and dames 

And people, from the high door stream- 
ing, brake 

Disorderly, as homeward each, the 
Queen, 

Who mark'd Sir Lancelot where he 
moved apart, 

Drew near, and sigh'd in passing, 
' Lancelot, 

Forgive me ; mine was jealousy in 
love.' 1340 

He answer'd with his eyes upon the 

ground, 
1 That is love's curse ; pass on, my 
Queen, forgiven.' 

But Arthur, who beheld his cloudy 
brows, 



Approach'd him, and with full affec- 
tion said : 

'Lancelot, my Lancelot, thou in 

whom I have 
Most joy and most affiance, for I 

know 
What thou hast been in battle by my 

side, 
And many a time have watch'd thee at 

the tilt 
Strike down the lusty and long prac- 
tised knight 
And let the younger and unskill'd go 

by 1350 

To win his honor and to make his 

name, 
And loved thy courtesies and thee, a 

man 
Made to be loved ; but now I would to 

God, 
Seeing the homeless trouble in thine 

eyes, 
Thou couldst have loved this maiden, 

shaped, it seems, 
By God for thee alone, and from her 

face, 
If one may judge the living by the 

dead, 
Delicately pure and marvellously fair, 
Who might have brought thee, now a 

lonely man 
Wifeless and heirless, noble issue, 

sons 1360 

Born to the glory of thy name and 

fame, 
My knight, the great Sir Lancelot of 

the Lake.' 

Then answer'd Lancelot: 'Fair she 

was, my King, 
Pure, as you ever wish your knights 

to be. 
To doubt her fairness were to want an 

eye, 
To doubt her pureness were to want a 

heart — 
Yea, to be loved, if what is worthy 

love 
Could bind him, but free love will not 

be bound.' 

'Free love, so bound, were freest,' 
said the King. 
' Let love be free ; free love is for the 
best. 1370 



THE HOLY GRAIL 



5i3 



And, after heaven, on our dull side of 

death, 
What should be best, if not so pure a 

love 
Clothed in so pure a loveliness ? yet 

thee 
She fail'd to bind, tho' being, as I 

think, 
Unbound as yet, and gentle, as I 

know/ 

And Lancelot answer' d nothing, but 

he went, 
And at the inrunning of a little brook 
Sat by the river in a cove, and watch'd 
The high reed wave, and lifted up his 

eyes 
And saw the barge that brought her 

moving down, 1380 

Far-off, a blot upon the stream, and 

said 
Low in himself : ' Ah, simple heart 

and sweet, 
Ye loved me, damsel, surely with a love 
Far tenderer than my Queen's. Pray 

for thy soul ? 
Ay, that will I. Farewell too — now 

at last — 
Farewell, fair lily. "Jealousy in 

love ? " 
Not rather dead love's harsh heir, jeal- 
ous pride ? 
Queen, if I grant the jealousy as of 

love, 
May not your crescent fear for name 

and fame 
Speak, as it waxes, of a love that 

wanes ? 1390 

Why did the King dwell on my name 

to me ? 
Mine own name shames me, seeming a 

reproach, 
Lancelot, whom the Lady of the Lake 
Caught from his mother's arms — the 

wondrous one 
Who passes thro' the vision of the 

night — 
She chanted snatches of mysterious 

hymns 
Heard on the winding waters, eve and 

morn 
She kiss'd me, saying, ' ' Thou art fair, 

my child, 
As a king's son," and often in her arms 
She bare me, pacing on the dusky 

mere. 1400 



Would she had drown'd me in it, 

where'er it be ! 
For what am I ? what profits me my 

name 
Of greatest knight ? I fought for it, 

and have it. 
Pleasure to have it, none ; to lose it, 

pain; 
Now grown a part of me ; but what 

use in it ? 
To make men worse by making my 

sin known ? 
Or sin seem less, the sinner seeming 

great ? 
Alas for Arthur's greatest knight, a 

man 
Not after Arthur's heart ! I needs 

must break 
These bonds that so defame me. Not 

without 1410 

She wills it — would I, if she will'd it ? 

nay, 
Who knows ? but if I would not, then 

may God, 
I pray him, send a sudden angel down 
To seize me by the hair and bear me 

far, 
And, fling me deep in that forgotten 

mere, 
Among the tumbled fragments of the 

hills.' 

So groan'd Sir Lancelot in remorseful 
pain, 
Not knowing he should die a holy 
man. 



THE HOLY GRAIL 

From noisef ul arms, and acts of prow- 
ess done 
In tournament or tilt, Sir Percivale 
Whom Arthur and his knighthood 

call'd the Pure, 
Had past into the silent life of prayer. 
Praise, fast, and alms ; and leaving for 

the cowl 
The helmet in an abbey far away 
From Camelot, there, and not long 
after, died. 

And one, a fellow-monk among the 
rest, 
Ambrosius, loved him much beyond 
the rest, 



5*4 



IDYLLS OF THE KING 



And honor' d him, and wrought into 
his heart 10 

A way by love that waken'd love 
within, 

To answer that which came ; and as 
they sat 

Beneath a world-old yew-tree, darken- 
ing half 

The cloisters, on a gustful April morn 

That puff 'd the swaying branches into 
smoke 

Above them, ere the summer when he 
died, 

The monk Ambrosius question' d Per- 
civale : 

1 brother, I have seen this yew- 
tree smoke, 

Spring after spring, for half a hundred 
years ; 

For never have I known the world 
without, 20 

Nor ever stray'd beyond the pale. 
But thee, 

When first thou earnest — such a cour- 
tesy 

Spake thro' the limbs and in the voice 
— I knew 

For one of those who eat in Arthur's 
hall; 

For good ye are and bad, and like to 
coins, 

Some true, some light, but every one 
of you 

Stamp'd with the image of the King ; 
and now 

Tell me, what drove thee from the 
Table Round, 

My brother ? was it earthly passion 
crost?' 

* Nay,' said the knight ; ' for no such 
passion mine. 30 

But the sweet vision of the Holy Grail 

Drove me from all vainglories, rival- 
ries, 

And earthly heats that spring and 
sparkle out 

Among us in the jousts, while women 
watch 

Who wins, who falls, and waste the 
spiritual strength 

Within us, better offer'd up to heaven. ' 

To whom the monk : ' The Holy 
Grail ! — I trust 



We are green in Heaven's eyes ; but 

here too much 
We moulder — as to things without I 

mean — - 
Yet one of your own knights, a guest 

of ours, 40 

Told us of this in our refectory, 
But spake with such a sadness and so 

low 
We heard not half of what he said. 

What is it ? 
The phantom of a cup that comes and 

goes ? ' 

' Nay, monk ! what phantom ? ' an- 
swer' d Percivale. 

' The cup, the cup itself, from which 
our Lord 

Drank at the last sad supper with his 
own. 

This, from the blessed land of Aro- 
mat — 

After the day of darkness, when the 
dead 

Went wandering o'er Moriah — the 
good saint 50 

Arimathsean Joseph, journeying 
brought 

To Glastonbury, where the winter 
thorn 

Blossoms at Christmas, mindful of our 
Lord. 

And there awhile it bode ; and if a man 

Could touch <5r see it, he was heal'd at 
once, 

By faith, of all his ills. But then the 
times 

Grew to such evil that the holy cup 

Was caught away to heaven, and dis- 
appear^.' 

To whom the monk : ' From our old 

books I know 
That Joseph came of old to Glaston- 
bury, 60 
And there the heathen Prince, Arvira 

gus, 
Gave him an isle of marsh whereon to 

build ; 
And there he built with wattles from 

the marsh 
A little lonely church in days of yore. 
For so they say, these books of ours, 

but seem 
Mute of this miracle, far as I have 

read. 



THE HOLY GRAIL 



5*5 



But who first saw the holy thing to- 
day ? ' 

'A woman/ answer'd Percivale, 'a 
nun, 

And one no further off in blood from 
me 

Than sister ; and if ever holy maid 70 

With knees of adoration wore the 
stone, 

A holy maid ; tho' never maiden 
glow'd, 

But that was in her earlier maiden- 
hood, 

With such a fervent flame of human 
love, 

Which, being rudely blunted, glanced 
and shot 

Only to holy things ; to prayer and 
praise 

She gave herself, to fast and alms. 
. And yet, 

Nun as she was, the scandal of the 
Court, 

Sin against Arthur and the Table 
Round, 

And the strange sound of an adulter- 
ous race, 80 

Across the iron grating of her cell 

Beat, and she pray'd and fasted all 
the more. 

1 And he to whom she told her sins, 

or what 
Her all but utter whiteness held for sin, 
A man wellnigh a hundred winters old, 
Spake often with her of the Holy Grail, 
A legend handed down thro' five or six, 
And each of these a hundred winters 

old, 
From our Lord's time. And when 

•King Arthur made 
His Table Round, and all men's hearts 

became 90 

Clean for a season, surely he had 

thought 
That now the Holy Grail would come 

again ; 
But sin broke out. Ah, Christ, that it 

would come, 
And heal the world of all their wick- 
edness ! 
"O Father!" ask'd the maiden, 

4 ' might it come 
To me by prayer and fasting ? " 

"Nay," said he, 



" I know not, for thy heart is pure as 

snow." 
And so she pray'd and fasted, till the 

sun 
Shone, and the wind blew, thro' her, 

and I thought 
She might have risen and floated when 

I saw her. 100 

1 For on a day she sent to speak with 
me. 

And when she came to speak, behold 
her eyes 

Beyond my knowing of them, beauti- 
ful, 

Beyond all knowing of them, wonder- 
ful, 

Beautiful in the light of holiness ! 

And "O my brother Percivale," she 
said, 

" Sweet brother, I have seen the Holy 
Grail ; 

For, waked at dead of night, I heard 
a sound 

As of a silver horn from o'er the hills 

Blown, and I thought, ' It is not Ar- 
thur's use no 

To hunt by moonlight/ And the slen- 
der sound 

As from a distance beyond distance 
grew 

Coming upon me — O never harp nor 
horn, 

Nor aught we blow with breath, or 
touch with hand, 

Was like that music as it came : and 
then 

Stream' d thro' my cell a cold and sil- 
ver beam, 

And down the long beam stole the 
Holy Grail, 

Rose-red with beatings in it, as if alive, 

Till all the white walls of my cell were 
dyed 

With rosy colors leaping on the wall ; 

And then the music faded, and the 
Grail 121 

Past, and the beam decay'd, and from 
the walls 

The rosy quiverings died into the 
night. 

So now the Holy Thing is here again 

Among us, brother, fast thou too and 
pray, 

And tell thy brother knights to fast 
and pray, 



5*6 



IDYLLS OF THE KING 



That so perchance the vision may be 

seen 
By thee and those, and all the world 

be heal'd." 

1 Then leaving the pale nun, I spake 
of this 

To all men ; and myself fasted and 
pray'd 130 

Always, and many among us many a 
week 

Fasted and pray'd even to the utter- 
most, 

Expectant of the wonder that would 
be. 

1 And one there was among us, ever 

moved 
Among us in white armor, Galahad. 
''God make thee good as thou art 

beautiful ! " 
Said Arthur, when he dubb'd him 

knight, and none 
In so young youth was ever made a 

knight 
Till Galahad ; and this Galahad, when 

he heard 
My sister's vision, fiU'd me with amaze ; 
His eyes became so like her own, they 

seem'd 141 

Hers, and himself her brother more 

than I. 

Sister or brother none had he ; but 

some 
Call'd him a son of Lancelot, and some 

said 
Begotten by enchantment — chatterers 

they, 
Like birds of passage piping up and 

down, 
That gape for flies — we know not 

whence they come ; 
For when was Lancelot wanderingly 

lewd? 

'But she, the wan sweet maiden, 

shore away 
Clean from her forehead all that wealth 

of hair 150 

Which made a silken mat-work for her 

feet ; 
And out of this she plaited broad and 

long 
A strong sword-belt, and wove with 

silver thread 



And crimson in the belt a strange de- 
vice, 
A crimson grail within a silver beam ; 
And saw the bright boy-knight, and 

bound it on him, 
Saying: "My knight, my love, my 

knight of heaven, 
O thou, my love, whose love is one 

with mine, 
I, maiden, round thee, maiden, bind 

my belt. 
Go forth, for thou shalt see what I 

have seen, 160 

And break thro' all, till one will crown 

thee king 
Far in the spiritual city ; " and as she 

spake 
She sent the deathless passion in her 

eyes 
Thro' him, and made him hers, and 

laid her mind 
On him, and he believed in her belief. 

'Then came a year of miracle, o 
brother, 

In our great hall there stood a vacant 
chair, 

Fashion'd by Merlin ere he past away. 

And carven with strange figures ; and 
in and out 

The figures, like a serpent, ran a scroll 

Of letters in a tongue no man could 
read. 171 

And Merlin call'd it ' ' the Siege Peril- 
ous," 

Perilous for good and ill ; "for there," 
he said, 

' ' No man could sit but he should lose 
himself." 

And once by misadvertence Merlin sat 

In his own chair, and so was lost ; but 
he, 

Galahad, when he heard of Merlin's 
doom, 

Cried, "If I lose myself, I save my- 
self ! " 

' Then on a summer night it came 
to pass, 

While the great banquet lay along 
the hall, 180 

That Galahad would sit down in Mer- 
lin's chair. 

'And all at once, as there we sat, 
we heard 



THE HOLY GRAIL 



5*7 



A cracking and a riving of the roofs, 
And rending, and a blast, and overhead 
Thunder, and in the thunder was a cry. 
And in the blast there smote along the 

hall 
A beam of light seven times more 

clear than day ; 
And down the long beam stole the 

Holy Grail 
All over cover'd with aluminous cloud, 
And none might see who bare it, and 

it past. 190 

But every knight beheld his fellow's 

face 
As in a glory, and all the knights 

arose, 
And staring each at other like dumb 

men 
Stood, till I found a voice and sware 

a vow. 

'I sware a vow before them all, 

that I, 
Because I had not seen the Grail, 

would ride 
A twelvemonth and a day in quest of 

it, 
Until I found and saw it, as the nun 
My sister saw it ; and Galahad sware 

the vow, 
And good Sir Bors, our Lancelot's 

cousin, sware, 200 

And Lancelot sware, and many among 

the knights, 
And Gawain sware, and louder than 

the rest.' 

Then spake the monk Ambrosius, 
asking him, 
' What said the King ? Did Arthur 
take the vow ? ' 

'Nay, for my lord/ said Percivale, 

' the King, 
Was not in hall ; for early that same 

day, 
Scaped thro' a cavern from a bandit 

bold, 
An outraged maiden sprang into the 

hall 
Crying on help ; for all her shining 

hair 
Was smear'd with earth, and either 

milky arm 210 

Red-rent with hooks of bramble, and 

all she wore 



Torn as a sail that leaves the rope is 

torn 
In tempest. So the King arose and 

went 
To smoke the scandalous hive of those 

wild bees 
That made such honey in his realm. 

Howbeit 
Some little of this marvel he too saw, 
Returning o'er the plain that then 

began 
To darken under Camelot ; whence 

the King 
Look'd up, calling aloud, "Lo, there! 

the roofs 
Of our great hall are roll'd in thunder 

smoke ! 220 

Pray heaven, they be not smitten by 

the "bolt ! " 
For dear to Arthur was that hall of 

ours, 
As having there so oft with all his 

knights 
Feasted, and as the stateliest under 

heaven. 

'O brother, had you known our 

mighty hall, 
Which Merlin built for Arthur long 

ago! 
For all the sacred mount of Camelot, 
And all the dim rich city, roof by roof, 
Tower after tower, spire beyond spire, 
By grove, and garden-lawn, and rush- 
ing brook, 230 
Climbs to the mighty hall that Merlin 

built. 
And four great zones of sculpture, set 

betwixt 
With many a mystic symbol, gird the 

hall; 
And in the lowest beasts are slaying 

men, 
And in the second men are slaying 

beasts, 
And on the third are warriors, perfect 

men, 
And on the fourth are men with 

growing wings, 
And over all one statue in the mould 
Of Arthur, made by Merlin, with a 

crown, 
And peak'd wings pointed to the 

Northern Star. 240 

And eastward fronts the statue, and 

the crown 



5*8 



IDYLLS OF THE KING 



And both the wings are made of gold, 

and flame 
At sunrise till the people in far fields, 
Wasted so often by the heathen hordes, 
Behold it, crying, "We have still a 

king." 

' And, brother, had you known our 

hall within, 
Broader and higher than any in all 

the lands ! 
Where twelve great windows blazon 

Arthur's wars, 
And all the light that falls upon the 

board 
Streams thro' the twelve great battles 

of our King. 250 

Nay, one there is, and at the eastern 

end, 
Wealthy with wandering lines of 

mount and mere, 
Where Arthur finds the brand Excali- 

bur. 
And also one to the west, and counter 

to it, 
And blank ; and who shall blazon it ? 

when and how ? — 
O, there, perchance, when all our 

wars are done, 
The brand Excalibur will be cast 

away ! 

1 So to this hall full quickly rode 

the King, 
In horror lest the work by Merlin 

wrought, 
Dreamlike, should on the sudden van- 
ish, wrapt 260 
In unremorsef ul folds of rolling fire. 
And in he rode, and up I glanced, 

and saw 
The golden dragon sparkling over all ; 
And many of those who burnt the 

hold, their arms 
Hack'd, and their foreheads grimed 

with smoke and sear'd, 
Follow' d, and in among bright faces, 

ours, 
Full of the vision, prest ; and then the 

King 
Spake to me, being nearest, "Perci- 

vale," — 
Because the hall was all in tumult — 

some 
Vowing, and some protesting, — 

"What is this?" 270 



1 brother, when I told him what 

had chanced, 
My sister's vision and the rest, his face 
Darken'd, as I have seen it more than 

once, 
When some brave deed seem'd to be 

done in vain, 
Darken; and "Woe is me, my knights," 

he cried, 
"Had I been here, ye had not sworn 

the vow." 
Bold was mine answer, "Had thyself 

been here, 
My King, thou wouldst have sworn." 

"Yea, yea," said he, 
"Art thou so bold and hast not seen 

the Grail ?* 

'"Nay, lord, I heard the sound, I 

saw the light, 280 

But since I did not see the holy thing, 

I sware a vow to follow it till I saw." 

' Then when he ask'd us, knight by 

knight, if any 
Had seen it, all their answers were as 

one: 
"Nay, lord, and therefore have we 

sworn our vows." 

'"Lo, now," said Arthur, "have 
ye seen a cloud ? 
What go ye into the wilderness to 

see ? " 

' Then Galahad on the sudden, and 

in a voice 
Shrilling along the hall to Arthur, 

call'd, 
"But I, Sir Arthur, saw the Holy 

Grail, 290 

I saw the Holy Grail and heard a cry — 
' O Galahad, and O Galahad, follow 

me !"" 

1 " Ah, Galahad, Galahad," said the 

King, "for such 
As thou art is the vision, not for these. 
Thy holy nun and thou have seen a 

sign — 
Holier is none, my Percivale, than 

she — 
A sign to maim this Order which I 

made. 
But ye that follow but the leader's 

bell," — 



THE HOLY GRAIL 



5*9 



Brother, the King was hard upon his 

knights, — 
" Taliessin is our fullest throat of 

song, 300 

And one hath sung and all the dumb 

will sing. 
Lancelot is Lancelot, and hath over- 
borne 
Five knights at once, and every 

younger knight, 
Unproven, holds himself as Lancelot, 
Till overborne by one, he learns — 

and ye, 
What are ye ? Galahads 2 — no, nor 

Percivales" — 
For thus it pleased the King to range 

me close 
After Sir Galahad ; — " nay," said he, 

" but men 
With strength and will to right the 

wrong'd, of power 
To lay the sudden heads of violence 

flat, 310 

Knights that in twelve great battles 

splash'd and dyed 
The strong White Horse in his own 

heathen blood — 
But one hath seen, and all the blind 

will see. 
Go, since your vows are sacred, being 

made. 
Yet — for ye know the cries of all my 

realm 
Pass thro' this hall — how often, O 

my knights, 
Your places being vacant at my side, 
This chance of noble deeds will come 

and go 
Unchallenged, while ye follow wan- 
dering fires 
Lost in the quagmire ! Many of you, 

yea most, 320 

Return no more. Ye think I show 

myself 
Too dark a prophet. Come now, let 

us meet 
The morrow morn once more in one 

full field 
Of gracious pastime, that once more 

the King, 
Before ye leave him for this quest, 

may count 
The yet-unbroken strength of all his 

knights, 
Rejoicing in that Order which he 

made." 



1 So when the sun broke next from 

underground, 
All the great Table of our Arthur 

closed 
And clash' d in such a tourney and so 

full, 330 

So many lances broken — never yet 

Had Camelot seen the like since Ar- 
thur came ; 

And I myself and Galahad, for a 
strength 

Was in us from the vision, overthrew 

So many knights that all the people 
cried, 

And almost burst the barriers in their 
heat, 

Shouting, "Sir Galahad and Sir Per- 
civale ! " 

1 But when the next day brake from 

underground — 
O brother, had you known our Came- 
lot, 
Built by old kings, age after age, so 

old 340 

The King himself had fears that it 

would fall, 
So strange, and rich, and dim ; for 

where the roofs 
Totter'd toward each other in the 

sky, 
Met foreheads all along the street of 

those 
Who watch'd us pass ; and lower, and 

where the long 
Rich galleries, lady-laden, weigh'd 

the necks 
Of dragons clinging to the crazy walls, 
Thicker than drops from thunder, 

showers of flowers 
Fell as we past ; and men and boys 

astride 
On wyvern, lion, dragon, griffin, 

swan, 350 

At all the corners, named us each by 

name, 
Calling "God speed!" but in the 

ways below 
The knights and ladies wept, and rich 

and poor 
Wept, and the King himself could 

hardly speak 
For grief, and all in middle street the 

Queen, 
Who rode by Lancelot, wail'd and 

shriek' d aloud, 



520 



IDYLLS OF THE KING 



"This madness has come on us for 

our sins." 
So to the Gate of the Three Queens 

we came, 
Where Arthur's wars are render' d 

mystically, 
And thence departed every one his 

way. 360 

' And I was lifted up in heart, and 

thought 
Of all my late-shown prowess in the 

lists, 
How my strong lance had beaten down 

the knights, 
So many and famous names ; and 

never yet 
Had heaven appear'd so blue, nor 

earth so green, 
For all my blood danced in me, and I 

knew 
That I should light upon the Holy 

Grail. 

'Thereafter, the dark warning of 

our King, 
That most of us would follow wan- 
dering fires, 
Came like a driving gloom across my 

mind. 370 

Then every evil word I had spoken 

once, 
And every evil thought I had thought 

of old, 
And every evil deed I ever did, 
Awoke and cried, ' ' This quest is not 

for thee." 
And lifting up mine eyes, I found 

myself 
Alone, and in a land of sand and 

thorns, 
And I was thirsty even unto 

death ; 
And I, too, cried, "This quest is not 

for thee." 

' And on I rode, and when I thought 
my thirst 

Would slay me, saw deep lawns, and 
then a brook, 380 

With one sharp rapid, where the crisp- 
ing white 

Play'd ever back upon the sloping 
wave 

And took both ear and eye; and o'er 
the brook 



Were apple-trees, and apples by the 

brook 
Fallen, and on the lawns. ' ' I will 

rest here," 
I said, "I am not worthy of the 

quest ; " 
But even while I drank the brook, and 

ate 
The goodly apples, all these things at 

once 
Fell into dust, and I was left alone 
And thirsting in a land of sand and 

thorns. 390 

'And then behold a woman at a 

door 
Spinning ; and fair the house whereby 

she sat, 
And kind the woman's eyes and inno- 
cent, 
And all her bearing gracious ; and she 

rose 
Opening her arms to meet me, as who 

should say, 
" Rest here ; " but when I touch' d her, 

lo ! she, too, 
Fell into dust and nothing, and the 

house 
Became no better than a broken 

shed, 
And in it a dead babe ; and also 

this 
Fell into dust, and I was left alone. 

' And on I rode, and greater was 

my thirst. 401 

Then flash' d a yellow gleam across the 

world, 
And where it smote the plowshare in 

the field 
The plowman left his plowing and 

fell down 
Before it ; where it glitter'd on her 

pail 
The milkmaid left her milking and 

fell down 
Before it, and I knew not why, but 

thought 
" The sun is rising," tho' the sun had 

risen. 
Then was I ware of one that on me 

moved 
In golden armor with a crown of 

gold 
About a casque all jewels, and his 

horse 41 « 



THE HOLY GRAIL 



5 2] 



In golden armor jewelled everywhere ; 
And on the splendor came, flashing 

me blind. 
And seem'd to me the lord of all the 

world, 
Being so huge. But when I thought 

he meant 
To crush me, moving on me, lo ! he, 

too, 
Open'd his arms to embrace me as he 

came, 
And up I went and touch'd him, and 

he, too, 
Fell into dust, and I was left alone 
And wearying in a land of sand and 

thorns. 420 

1 And I rode on and found a mighty 

hill, 
And on the top a city waird ; the 

spires 
Prick'd with incredible pinnacles into 

heaven. 
And by the gateway stirr'd a crowd ; 

and these 
Cried to me climbing, "Welcome, 

Percivale ! 
Thou mightiest and thou purest among 

men ! " 
And glad was I and clomb, but found 

at top 
No man, nor any voice. And thence 

I past 
Far thro' a ruinous city, and I saw 
That man had once dwelt there ; but 

there I found 430 

Only one man of an exceeding age. 
"Where is that goodly company," 

said I, 
"That so cried out upon me?" and 

he had 
Scarce any voice to answer, and yet 

gasp'd, 
" Whence and what art thou ? " and 

even as he spoke 
Fell into dust and disappear'd, and I 
Was left alone once more and cried in 

grief, 
" Lo, if I find the Holy Grail itself 
And touch it, it will crumble into 

dust ! " 

1 And thence I dropt into a lowly 
vale, 440 

Low as the hill was high, and where 
the vale 



Was lowest found a chapel, and there- 
by 
A holy hermit in a hermitage, 
To whom I told my phantoms, and he 
said: 

1 " O son, thou hast not true humil- 
ity, 
The highest virtue, mother of them 

all; 
For when the Lord of all things made 

Himself 
Naked of glory for His mortal change, 
' Take thou my robe/ she said, ' for all 

is thine/ 
And all her form shone forth with 

sudden light 45 o 

So that the angels were amazed, and 

she 
Follow' d Him down, and like a flying 

star 
Led on the gray -hair' d wisdom of the 

east. 
But her thou hast not known; for 

what is this 
Thou thoughtest of thy prowess and 

thy sins ? 
Thou hast not lost thyself to save thy- 
self 
As Galahad." When the hermit made 

an end, 
In silver armor suddenly Galahad 

shone 
Before us, and against the chapel door 
Laid lance and enter' d, and we knelt in 

prayer. 460 

And there the hermit slaked my burn- 
ing thirst, 
And at the sacring of the mass I saw 
The holy elements alone ; but he, 
" Saw ye no more ? I, Galahad, saw 

the Grail, 
The Holy Grail, descend upon the 

shrine. 
I saw the fiery face as of a child 
That smote itself into the bread and 

went ; 
And hither am I come; and never 

yet 
Hath what thy sister taught me firsc 

to see, 
This holy thing, fail'd from my side, 

nor come ( 470 

Cover'd, but moving with me night 

and day, 
Fainter bv day, but always in the night 



522 



IDYLLS OF THE KING 



Blood-red, and sliding down the black - 

en'd marsh 
Blood-red, and on the naked mountain 

top 
Blood-red, and in the sleeping mere 

below 
Blood-red. And in the strength of 

this I rode, 
Shattering all evil customs every- 
where, 
And past thro' Pagan realms, and 

made them mine, 
And clash'd with Pagan hordes, and 

bore them down, 
And broke thro' all, and in the strength 

of this 480 

Come victor. But my time is hard at 

hand. 
And hence I go, and one will crown 

me king 
Far in the spiritual city; and come 

thou, too, 
For thou shalt see the vision when I 

go." 

* While thus he spake, his eye, 
dwelling on mine, 

Drew me, with power upon me, till I 
grew 

One with him, to believe as he be- 
lieved. 

Then, when the day began to wane, we 
went. 

' There rose a hill that none but man 
could climb, 

Scarr'd with a hundred wintry water- 
courses — 490 

Storm at the top, and when we gain'd 
it, storm 

Round us and death ; for every mo- 
ment glanced 

His silver arms and gloom' d, so quick 
and thick 

The lightnings here and there to left 
and right 

Struck, till the dry old trunks about 
us, dead, 

Yea, rotten with a hundred years of 
death, 

Sprang into fire. And at the base we 
found 

On either hand, as far as eye could 
see, 

A great black swamp and of an evil 
smell, 



Part black, part whiten'd with the 

bones of men, 500 

Not to be crost, save that some an- 
cient king 
Had built a way, where, link'd with 

many a bridge, 
A thousand piers ran into the great 

Sea. 
And Galahad fled along them bridge 

by bridge, 
And every bridge as quickly as he 

crost 
Sprang into fire and vanish'd, tho' I 

yearn'd 
To follow ; and thrice above him all 

the heavens 
Open'd and blazed with thunder such 

as seem'd 
Shoutings of all the sons of God. And 

first 
At once I saw him far on the great 

Sea, 510 

In silver-shining armor starry-clear ; 
And o'er his head the Holy Yessel 

hung 
Clothed in white samite or a luminous 

cloud. 
And with exceeding swiftness ran the 

boat, 
If boat it were — I saw not whence it 

came. 
And when the heavens open'd and 

blazed again 
Roaring, I saw him like a silver star — 
And had he set the sail, or had the 

boat 
Become a living creature clad with 

wings ? 
And o'er his head the Holy Yessel 

hung 520 

Redder than any rose, a joy to me. 
For now I knew the veil had been 

withdrawn. 
Then in a moment when they blazed 

again 
Opening, I saw the least of little stars 
Down on the waste, and straight be- 
yond the star 
I saw the spiritual city and all her 

spires 
And gateways in a glory like one 

pearl — 
No larger, tho' the goal of all the 

saints — 
Strike from the sea ; and from the star 

there shot 



THE HOLY GRAIL 



5 2 3 



A rose-red sparkle to the city, and 

there 530 

Dwelt, and I knew it was the Holy 

Grail, 
Which never eyes on earth again shall 

see. 
Then fell the floods of heaven drown- 
ing the deep, 
And how my feet recrost the deathful 

ridge 
No memory in me lives ; but that I 

touch' d 
The chapel-doors at dawn I know, and 

thence 
Taking my war-horse from the holy 

man, 
Glad that no phantom vext me more, 

return'd 
To whence I came, the gate of Arthur's 

wars.' 

O brother,' ask'd Ambrosius, — 

1 for in sooth 540 

These ancient books — and they would 

win thee — teem, 
Only I find not there this Holy Grail, 
With miracles and marvels like to 

these, 
Not all unlike ; which oftentime I 

read, 
Who read but on my breviary with 

ease, 
Till my head swims, and then go forth 

and pass 
Down to the little thorpe that lies so 

close, 
And almost plaster' d like a martin's 

nest 
To these old walls — and mingle with 

our folk ; 
And knowing every honest face of 

theirs 550 

As well as ever shepherd knew his 

sheep, 
And every homely secret in their 

hearts, 
Delight myself with gossip and old 

wives, 
And ills and aches, and teethings, 

lyings-in, 
And mirthful sayings, children of the 

place, 
That have no meaning half a league 

away ; 
Or lulling random squabbles when 

they rise, 



Chafferings and chatterings at the 

market- cross, 
Rejoice, small man, in this small world 

of mine, 
Yea, even in their hens and in their 

eggs— 5 6o 

brother, saving this Sir Galahad, 
Came ye on none but phantoms in 

your quest, 
No man, no woman ? ' 

Then Sir Percivale : 
' All men, to one so bound by such a 

vow, 
And women were as phantoms. O, 

my brother, 
Why wilt thou shame me to confess to 

thee 
How far I falter'd from my quest and 

vow ? 
For after I had lain so many nights, 
A bed-mate of the snail and eft and 

snake, 
In grass and burdock, I was changed 

to wan 570 

And meagre, and the vision had not 

come ; 
And then I chanced upon a goodly 

town 
With one great dwelling in the middle 

of it. 
Thither I made, and there was I dis- 
arm' d 
By maidens each as fair as any flower ; 
But when they led me into hall, behold, 
The princess of that castle was the one, 
Brother, and that one only, who had 

ever 
Made my heart leap ; for when I 

moved of old 579 

A slender page about her father's hall, 
And she a slender maiden, all my heart 
Went after her with longing, yet we 

twain 
Had never kiss'd a kiss or vow'd a vow. 
And now I came upon her once again, 
And one had wedded her, and he was 

dead, 
And all his land and wealth and state 

were hers. 
And while I tarried, every day she set 
A banquet richer than the day before 
By me, for all her longing and her will 
Was toward me as of old ; till one fair 

morn, 590 

1 walking to and fro beside a stream 



5 2 4 



IDYLLS OF THE KING 



That flash' d across her orchard under- 
neath 
Her castle-walls, she stole upon my 

walk, 
And calling me the greatest of all 

knights, 
Embraced me, and so kiss'd me the 

first time, 
And gave herself and all her wealth to 

me, 
Then I remember d Arthur's warning 

word, 
That most of us would follow wander- 
ing fires, 
And the quest faded in my heart. 

Anon, 
The heads of all her people drew to me, 
With supplication both of knees and 

tongue : 601 

' 'We have heard of thee; thou art 

our greatest knight, 
Our Lady says it, and we well believe. 
Wed thou our Lady, and rule over us, 
And thou shalt be as Arthur in our 

land." 
O me, my brother ! but one night my 

vow 
Burnt me within, so that I rose and 

fled, 
But wail'd and wept, and hated mine 

own self, 
And even the holy quest, and all but 

her ; 
Then after I was join'd with Galahad 
Cared not for her nor anything upon 

earth.' 6n 

Then said the monk : ' Poor men, 

when yule is cold, 
Must be content to sit by little fires. 
And this am I, so that ye care for me 
Ever so little ; yea, and blest be heaven 
That brought thee here to this poor 

house of ours 
Where all the brethren are so hard, to 

warm 
My cold heart with a friend ; but O 

the pity 
To find thine own first love once more 

— to hold, 
Hold her a wealthy bride within thine 

arms, 620 

Or all but hold, and then — cast her 

aside, 
Foregoing all her sweetness, like a 

weed ! 



For we that want the warmth of 
double life, 

We that are plagued with dreams of 
something sweet 

Beyond all sweetness in a life so rich. — 

Ah, blessed Lord, I speak too earthly- 
wise, 

Seeing I never stray' d beyond the 
cell, 

But live like an old badger in his earth, 

With earth about him everywhere, 
despite 

All fast and penance. Saw ye none be- 
side, 630 

None of your knights ? 

1 Yea, so,' said Percivale : 
' One night my pathway swerving 

east, I saw 
The pelican on the casque of our Sir 

Bors 
All in the middle of the rising moon, 
And toward him spurr'd, and hail'd 

him, and he me, 
And each made joy of either. Then 

he ask'd : 
' ' Where is he ? hast thou seen him — 

Lancelot ? — Once," 
Said good Sir Bors, ' ' he dash'd across 

me — mad, 
And maddening what he rode ; and 

when I cried, 
' Ridest thou then so hotly on a quest 
So holy ? ' Lancelot shouted, ' Stay me 

not ! 641 

I have been the sluggard, and I ride 

apace, 
For now there is a lion in the way ! ' 
So vanish'd." 

1 Then Sir Bors had ridden on 
Softly, and sorrowing for our Lance- 
lot, 
Because his former madness, once the 

talk 
And scandal of our table, had return'd ; 
For Lancelot's kith and kin so worship 

him 
That ill to him is ill to them, to Bors 
Beyond the rest. He well had been 
content 650 

Not to have seen, so Lancelot might 

have seen, 
The Holy Cup of healing ; and, indeed, 
Being so clouded with his grief and 
love, 



THE HOLY GRAIL 



525 



Small heart was his after the holy 

quest. 
If God would send the vision, well; 

if not, 
The quest and he were in the hands 

of Heaven. 

'And then, with small adventure 

met, Sir Bors 
Rode to the lonest tract of all the 

realm, 
And found a people there among their 

crags, 
Our race and blood, a remnant that 

were left 660 

Paynim amid their circles, and the 

stones 
They pitch up straight to heaven ; and 

their wise men 
Were strong in that old magic which 

can trace 
The wandering of the stars, and scoff d 

at him 
And this high quest as at a simple 

thing, 
Told him he follow'd — almost Ar- 
thur's words — 
A mocking fire : ' ' what other fire than 

he 
Whereby the blood beats, and the 

blossom blows, 
And the sea rolls, and all the world is 

warm'd ? " 
And when his answer chafed them, the 

rough crowd, 670 

Hearing he had a difference with their 

priests, 
Seized him, and bound and plunged 

him into a cell 
Of great piled stones ; and lying 

bounden there 
In darkness thro' innumerable hours 
He heard the hollow-ringing heavens 

sweep 
Over him till by miracle — what 

else ? — 
Heavy as it was, a great stone slipt 

and fell, 
Such as no wind could move ; and 

thro' the gap 
Glimmer' d the streaming scud. Then 

came a night 
Still as the day was loud, and thro' 

the gap u 680 

The seven clear stars of Arthur's Table 

Round — 



For, brother, so one night, because 

they roll 
Thro' such a round in heaven, we 

named the stars, 
Rejoicing in ourselves and in our 

King — 
And these, like bright eyes of familiar 

friends, 
In on him shone : "And then to me, 

to me," 
Said good Sir Bors, " beyond all hopes 

of mine, 
Who scarce had pray'd or ask'd it for 

myself — 
Across the seven clear stars — O grace 

to me ! — 
In color like the fingers of a hand 690 
Before a burning taper, the sweet Grail 
Glided and past, and close upon it 

peal'd 
A sharp quick thunder." Afterwards, 

a maid, 
Who kept our holy faith among her 

kin 
In secret, entering, loosed and let him 



To whom the monk: 'And I re- 
member now 

That pelican on the casque. Sir Bors 
it was 

Who spake so low and sadly at our 
board, 

And mighty reverent at our grace was 
he ; 

A square-set man and honest, and his 
eyes, 700 

An outdoor sign of all the warmth 
within, 

Smiled with his lips — a smile beneath 
a cloud, 

But heaven had meant it for a sunny 
one. 

Ay, ay, Sir Bors, who else ? But 
when ye reach'd 

The city, found ye all your knights 
re turn' d, 

Or was there sooth in Arthur's pro- 
phecy, 

Tell me, and what said each, and what 
the King ? ' 

Then answer'd Percivale : ' And 
that can I, 
Brother, and truly; since the living 
words 



526 



IDYLLS OF THE KING 



Of so great men as Lancelot and our 
King 710 

Pass not from door to door and out 
again, 

But sit within the house. O, when 
we reach'd 

The city, our horses stumbling as they 
trode 

On heaps of ruin, hornless unicorns. 

Crack' d basilisks, and splinter'd cock- 
atrices, 

And shatter'd talbots, which had left 
the stones 

.Haw that they fell from, brought us 
to the hall. 

'And there sat Arthur on the dais- 
throne, 

And those that had gone out upon the 
quest, 

Wasted and worn, and but a tithe of 
them, 720 

And those that had not, stood before 
the King, 

Who, when he saw me, rose and bade 
me hail, 

Saying : " A welfare in thine eyes re- 
proves 

Our fear of some disastrous chance 
for thee 

On hill or plain, at sea or flooding 
ford. 

So fierce a gale made havoc here of 
late 

Among the strange devices of our 
kings, 

Yea, shook this newer, stronger hall 
of ours, 

And from the statue Merlin moulded 
for us 

Half-wrench'd a golden wing ; but 
now — the quest, 730 

This vision — hast thou seen the Holy 
Cup 

That Joseph brought of old to Glas- 
tonbury ? " 

' So when I told him all thyself hast 
heard, 

Ambrosius, and my fresh but fixt re- 
solve 

To pass away into the quiet life, 

He answer'd not, but, sharply turn- 
ing, ask'd 

Of Gawain, " Gawain, was this quest 
for thee ? " 



'"Nay, lord," said Gawain, "not 

for such as I. 
Therefore I communed with a saintly 

man, 
Who made me sure the quest was not 

for me ; 740 

For I was much a-wearied of the 

quest, 
But found a silk pavilion in a field, 
And merry maidens in it ; and then 

this gale 
Tore my pavilion from the tenting- 

pin, 
And blew my merry maidens all about 
With all discomfort ; yea, and but for 

this, 
My twelvemonth and a day were plea- 
sant to me." 

'He ceased; and Arthur turn' d to 

whom at first 
He saw not, for Sir Bors, on entering, 

push'd 
Athwart the throng to Lancelot, 

caught his hand, 750 

Held it, and there, half-hidden by 

him, stood, 
Until the King espied him, saying to 

him, 
' ' Hail, Bors ! if ever loyal man and 

true 
Could see it, thou hast seen the 

Grail ; " and Bors, 
"Ask me not, for I may not speak of 

it; 
I saw it ; " and the tears were in his 

eyes. 

' Then there remain'd but Lance- 
lot, for the rest 

Spake but of sundry perils in the 
storm. 

Perhaps, like him of Cana in Holy 
Writ, 

Our Arthur kept his best until the 
last ; 760 

"Thou, too, my Lancelot," ask'd the 
King, "my friend, 

Our mightiest, hath this quest avail'd 
for thee ? " 

' " Our mightiest ! " answer'd Lance- 
lot, with a groan ; 

' ' O King ! " — and when he paused 
me thought I spied 

A dying fire of madness in his eyes — 



THE HOLY GRAIL 



527 



" O King, my friend, if friend of thine 

I be, 
Happier are those that welter in their 

sin, 
Swine in the mud, that cannot see for 

slime, 
Slime of the ditch ; but in me lived a 

sin 
So strange, of such a kind, that all of 

pure, 770 

Noble, and knightly in me twined 

and clung 
Round that one sin, until the whole- 
some flower 
And poisonous grew together, each as 

each, 
Not to be pluck' d asunder ; and when 

thy knights 
Sware, I sware with them only in the 

hope 
That could I touch or see the Holy 

Grail 
' They might be pluck' d asunder. 

Then I spake 
To one most holy saint, who wept and 

said 
That, save they could be pluck'd 

asunder, all 
My quest were but in vain ; to whom 

I vow'd 780 

That I would work according as he 

will'd. 
And forth I went, and while I yearn' d 

and strove 
To tear the twain asunder in my 

heart, 
My madness came upon me as of old, 
And whipt me into waste fields far 

away. 
There was I beaten down by little 

men, 
Mean knights, to whom the moving of 

my sword 
And shadow of my spear had been 

enow 
To scare them from me once ; and 

then I came 
All in my folly to the naked shore, 790 
Wide flats, where nothing but coarse 

grasses grew ; 
But such a blast, my King, began to 

blow, 
So loud a blast along the shore and 

sea, 
Ye could not hear the waters for the 

blast. 



Tho' heapt in mounds and ridges all 

the sea 
Drove like a cataract, and all the sand 
Swept like a river, and the clouded 

heavens 
Were shaken with the motion and the 

sound. 
And blackening in the sea-foam 

sway'd a boat, 
Half-swallow'd in it, anchor'd with a 

chain ; 800 

And in my madness to myself I said, 
' I will embark and I will lose myself, 
And in the great sea wash away my 

sin/ 
I burst the chain, I sprang into the 

boat. 
Seven days I drove along the dreary 

deep, 
And with me drove the moon and all 

the stars ; 
And the wind fell, and on the seventh 

night 
I heard the shingle grinding in the 

surge, 
And felt the boat shock earth, and 

looking up, 
Behold, the enchanted towers of Car- 

bonek, 810 

A castle like a rock upon a rock, 
With chasm-like portals open to the 

sea, 
And steps that met the breaker ! 

There was none 
Stood near it but a lion on each side 
That kept the entry, and the moon 

was full. 
Then from the boat I leapt, and up 

the stairs, 
There drew my sword. With sudden- 

• flaring manes 
Those two great beasts rose upright 

like a man, 
Each gript a shoulder, and I stood be- 
tween, 
And, when I would have smitten 

them, heard a voice, 820 

' Doubt not, go forward ; if thou 

doubt, the beasts 
Will tear thee piecemeal.' Then with 

violence 
The sword was dash'd from out my 

hand, and fell. 
And up into the sounding hall I past ; 
But nothing in the sounding hall I 

saw, 



S 28 



IDYLLS OF THE KING 



No bench nor table, painting on the 

wall 
Or shield of knight, only the rounded 

moon 
Thro' the tall oriel on the rolling sea. 
But always in the quiet house I heard, 
Clear as a lark, high o'er me as a 

lark, 830 

A sweet voice singing in the topmost 

tower 
To the eastward. Up I climb'd a 

thousand steps 
With pain ; as in a dream I seem'd to 

climb 
For ever ; at the last I reach'd a door, 
A light was in the crannies, and I 

heard, 
' Glory and j oy and honor to our Lord 
And to the Holy Vessel of the Grail ! ' 
Then in my madness I essay'd the 

door; 
It gave, and thro' a stormy glare, a 

heat 
As from a seven - times - heated fur - 

nace, I, 840 

Blasted and burnt, and blinded as I 

was, 
With such a fierceness that I swoon d 

away — 
O, yet methought I saw the Holy 

Grail, 
All paird in crimson samite, and 

around 
Great angels, awful shapes, and wings 

and eyes ! 
And but for all my madness and my 

sin, 
And then my swooning, I had sworn 

I saw 
That which I saw ; but what I saw 

was veil'd 
And cover'd, and this quest was not 

for me." 

1 So speaking, and here ceasing, 

Lancelot left 850 

The hall long silent, till Sir Gawa'in — 

nay, 
Brother, I need not tell thee foolish 

words, — 
A reckless and irreverent knight was 

he, 
Now bolden'd by the silence of his 

King, — 
Well, I will tell thee : " O King, my 

liege," he said, 



" Hath Gawain fail'd" in any quest of 

thine ? 
When have I stinted stroke in f oughten 

field? 
But as for thine, my good friend Per- 

civale, 
Thy holy nun and thou have driven 

men mad, 
Yea, made our mightiest madder than 

our least. 860 

But by mine eyes and by mine ears I 

swear, 
I will be deafer than the blue-eyed cat, 
And thrice as blind as any noonday 

owl, 
To holy virgins in their ecstasies, 
Henceforward. " 

' " Deafer," said the blameless King, 
"Gawain, and blinder unto holy 

things, 
Hope not to make thyself by idle 

vows, 
Being too blind to have desire to see. 
But if indeed there came a sign from 

heaven, 
Blessed are Bors, Lancelot, and Per- 

civale, 870 

For these have seen according to their 

sight. 
For every fiery prophet in old times, 
And all the sacred madness of the bard, 
When God made music thro' them, 

could but speak 
His music by the framework and the 

chord ; 
And as ye saw it ye have spoken truth. 

1 "Nay — but thou errest, Lancelot ; 

never yet 
Could all of true and noble in. knight 

and man 
Twine round one sin, whatever it 

might be, 
With such a closeness but apart there 

grew, 880 

Save that he were the swine thou 

spakest of, 
Some root of knighthood and pure 

nobleness ; 
Whereto see thou, that it may bear its 

flower. 

1 ' ' And spake I not too truly, O my 
knights ? 
Was I too dark a prophet when I said 



PELLEAS AND ETTARRE 



5 2 9 



To those who went upon the Holy 
Quest, 

That most of them would follow wan- 
dering fires, 

Lost in the quagmire ? — lost to me 
and gone, 

And left me gazing at a barren board, 

And a lean Order — scarce return'd a 
tithe — 890 

And out of those to whom the vision 
came 

My greatest hardly will believe he 
saw. 

Another hath beheld it afar off, 

And, leaving human wrongs to right 
themselves, 

Cares but to pass into the silent life. 

And one hath had the vision face to 
face, 

And now his chair desires him here in 
vain, 

However they may crown him other- 
where. 

' ''And some among you held that 

if the King 
Had seen the sight he would have 

sworn the vow. 900 

Not easily, seeing that the King must 

guard 
That which he rules, and is but as the 

hind 
To whom a space of land is given to 

plow, 
Who may not wander from the allotted 

field 
Before his work be done, but, being 

done, 
Let visions of the night or of the 

day 
Come as they will ; and many a time 

they come, 
Until this earth he walks on seems not 

earth, 
This light that strikes his eyeball is 

not light, 
This air that smites his forehead is 

not air 9 io 

But vision — yea, his very hand and 

foot — 
In moments when he feels he cannot 

die, 
And knows himself no vision to him- 
self, 
Nor the high God a vision, nor that 
, One 



Who rose again. Ye have seen what 
ye have seen." 

1 So spake the King ; I knew not all 
he meant.' 



PELLEAS AND ETTARRE 

King Arthur made new knights to 

fill the gap 
Left by the Holy Quest; and as he 

sat 
In hall at old Caerleon, the high doors 
Were softly sunder' d, and thro' these 

a youth, 
Pelleas, and the sweet smell of the 

fields 
Past, and the sunshine came along 

with him. 

1 Make me thy knight, because I . 

know, Sir King, 
All that belongs to knighthood, and 

I love.' 
Such was his cry; for having heard 

the King 
Had let proclaim a tournament — the 

prize 10 

A golden circlet and a knightly sword, 
Full fain had Pelleas for his lady won 
The golden circlet, for himself the 

sword. 
And there were those who knew him 

near the King, 
And promised for him; and Arthur 

made him knight. 

And this new knight, Sir Pelleas of 

the Isles — 
But lately come to his inheritance, 
And lord of many a barren isle was 

he — 
Riding at noon, a day or twain before, 
Across the forest call'd of Dean, to 

find 20 

Caerleon and the King, had felt the 

sun 
Beat like a strong knight on his helm 

and reel'd 
Almost to falling from his horse, but 

saw 
Near him a mound of even-sloping 

side 
Whereon a hundred stately beeches 

grew, 



53° 



IDYLLS OF THE KING 



And here and there great hollies under 
them; 

But for a mile all round was open 
space 

And fern and heath. And slowly Pel- 
leas drew 

To that dim day, then, binding his 
good horse 

To a tree, cast himself down ; and as 
he lay 30 

At random looking over the brown 
earth 

Thro' that green-glooming twilight of 
the grove, 

It seem'd to Pelleas that the fern 
without 

Burnt as a living fire of emeralds, 

So that his eyes were dazzled looking 
at it. 

Then o'er it crost the dimness of a 
cloud 

Floating, and once the shadow of a bird 

Flying, and then a fawn ; and his eyes 
closed. 

And since he loved all maidens, but 
no maid 

In special, half -awake he whisper'd: 
' Where ? 40 

O, where ? I love thee, tho' I know 
thee not. 

For fair thou art and pure as Guine- 
vere, 

And I will make thee with my spear 
and sword 

As famous — O my Queen, my Guine- 
vere, 

For I will be thine Arthur when we 
meet.' 

Suddenly waken' d with a sound of 

talk 
And laughter at the limit of the wood, 
And glancing thro' the hoary boles, 

he saw, 
Strange as to some old prophet might 

have seem'd 
A vision hovering on a sea of fire, 50 
Damsels in divers colors like the cloud 
Of sunset and sunrise, and all of them 
On horses, and the horses richly trapt 
Breast-high in that bright line of 

bracken stood ; 
And all the damsels talk'd confusedly, 
And one was pointing this way and 

one that, 
Because the way was lost. 



And Pelleas rose, 
And loosed his horse, and led him to 

the light. 
There she that seem'd the chief among 

them said : 
'In happy time behold our pilot-star! 
Youth, we are damsels-errant, and we 

ride, 61 

Arm'd as ye see, to tilt against the 

knights 
There at Caerleon, but have lost our 

way. 
To right ? to left ? straight forward ? 

back again ? 
Which ? tell us quickly.' 

Pelleas gazing thought, 

1 Is Guinevere herself so beautiful ? ' 

For large her violet eyes look'd, and 
her bloom 

A rosy dawn kindled in stainless hea- 
vens, 

And round her limbs, mature in wo- 
manhood ; 

And slender was her hand and small 
her shape ; 70 

And but for those large eyes, the 
haunts of scorn, 

She might have seem'd a toy to trifle 
with, 

And pass and care no more. But 
while he gazed 

The beauty of her flesh abash'd the 
boy, 

As tho' it were the beauty of her 
soul ; 

For as the base man, judging of the 
good, 

Puts his own baseness in him by de- 
fault 

Of will and nature, so did Pelleas lend 

All the young beauty of his own soul 
to hers, 

Believing her, and when she spake to 
him 80 

Stammer' d, and could not make her a 
reply. 

For out of the waste islands had he 
come, 

Where saving his own sisters he had 
known 

Scarce any but the women of his isles, 

Rough wives, that laugh'd and 
scream' d against the gulls, 

Makers of nets, and living from the 



PELLEAS AND ETTARRE 



53i 



Then with a slow smile turn'd the 

lady round 
And look'd upon her people ; and, as 

when 
A stone is flung into some sleeping 

tarn 
The circle widens till it lip the marge, 
Spread the slow smile thro' all her 

company. 91 

Three knights were thereamong, and 

they too smiled, 
Scorning him; for the lady was Et- 

tarre, 
And she was a great lady in her land. 

Again she said : ' O wild and of the 

woods, 
Knowest thou not the fashion of our 

speech ? 
Or have the Heavens but given thee 

a fair face, 
Lacking a tongue ? ' 

' O damsel,' answer'd he, 
'I woke from dreams, and coming 

out of gloom 
Was dazzled by the sudden light, and 

crave 100 

Pardon ; but will ye to Caerleon ? I 
Go likewise ; shall I lead you to the 

King ? ' 

' Lead then/ she said ; and thro' 

the woods they went. 
And while they rode, the meaning in 

his eyes, 
His tenderness of manner, and chaste 

awe, 
His broken utterances and bashful- 

ness, 
Were all a burthen to her, and in her 

heart 
She mutter'd, ' I have lighted on a 

fool, 
Raw, yet so stale ! ' But since her 

mind was bent 
On hearing, after trumpet blown, her 

name no 

And title, ' Queen of Beauty/ in the 

lists 
Cried — and beholding him so strong 

she thought 
That peradventure he will fight for 

me, 
And win the circlet — therefore flat- 

ter'd him, 



Being so gracious that he wellnigh 

deem'd 
His wish by hers was echo'd ; and her 

knights 
And all her damsels too were gracious 

to him, 
For she was a great lady. 

And when they reach' d 
Caerleon, ere they past to lodging, 

she, 
Taking his hand, ' O the strong hand/ 

she said, 120 

' See ! look at mine ! but wilt thou 

fight for me, 
And win me this fine circlet, Pelleas, 
That I may love thee ? ' 

Then his helpless heart 
Leapt, and he cried, * Ay ! wilt thou 

if I win ? ' 
1 Ay, that will 1/ she answer'd, and 

she laugh'd, 
And straitly nipt the hand, and flung 

it from her ; 
Then glanced askew at those three 

knights of hers, 
Till all her ladies laugh'd along with 

her. 

'O happy world/ thought Pelleas, 

1 all, meseems, 
Are happy ; I the happiest of them 

all ! ' 130 

Nor slept that night for pleasure in his 

blood, 
And green wood-ways, and eyes among 

the leaves ; 
Then being on the morrow knighted, 

sware 
To love one only. And as he came 

away, 
The men who met him rounded on 

their heels 
And wonder'd after him, because his 

face 
Shone like the countenance of a priest 

of old 
Against the flame about a sacrifice 
Kindled by fire from heaven ; so glad 

was he. 

Then Arthur made vast banquets, 
and strange knights 140 

From the four winds came in ; and 
each one sat, 



53 2 



IDYLLS OF THE KING 



Tho' served with choice from air, land, 
stream, and sea, 

Oft in mid-banquet measuring with 
his eyes 

His neighbor's make and might ; and 
Pelleas look'd 

Noble among the noble, for he 
dream'd 

His lady loved him, and he knew him- 
self 

Loved of the King ; and him his new- 
made knight 

Worshipt, whose lightest whisper 
moved him more 

Than all the ranged reasons of the 
world. 

Then blush'd and brake the morn- 
ing of the jousts, 150 

And this was call'd ' The Tournament 
of Youth ; ' 

For Arthur, loving his young knight, 
withheld 

His older and his mightier from the 
lists, 

That Pelleas might obtain his lady's 
love, 

According to her promise, and re- 
main 

Lord of the tourney. And Arthur had 
the jousts 

Down in the flat field by the shore of 
Usk 

Holden ; the gilded parapets were 
crown'd 

With faces, and the great tower fill'd 
with eyes 

Up to the summit, and the trumpets 
blew. 160 

There all day long Sir Pelleas kept the 
field 

With honor ; so by that strong hand 
of his 

The sword and golden circlet were 
achieved. 

Then rang the shout his lady loved ; 

the heat 
Of pride and glory fired her face, her 

eye 
Sparkled ; she caught the circlet from 

his lance, 
And there before the people crown' d 

herself. 
So for the last time she was gracious 

to him. 



Then at Caerleon for a space — her 

look 
Bright for all others, cloudier on her 

knight — 170 

Linger'd Ettarre ; and, seeing Pelleas 

droop 
Said Guinevere, ' We marvel at thee 

much, 

damsel, wearing this *unsunny 

face 
To him who won thee glory ! ' And 

she said, 
'Had ye not held your Lancelot in 

your bower, 
My Queen, he had not won.' Whereat 

the Queen, 
As one whose foot is bitten by an 

ant, 
Glanced down upon her, turn'd and 

went her way. 

But after, when her damsels, and 

herself, 
And those three knights all set their 

faces home, 180 

Sir Pelleas follow'd. She that saw 

him cried : 
' Damsels — and yet I should be shamed 

to say it — 

1 cannot bide Sir Baby. Keep him 

back 
Among yourselves. Would rather 

that we had 
Some rough old knight who knew the 

worldly way, 
Albeit grizzlier than a bear, to ride 
And jest with ! Take him to you, 

keep him off, 
And pamper him with papmeat, if ye 

will, 
Old milky fables of the wolf and 

sheep, 
Such as the wholesome mothers tell 

their boys. 190 

Nay, should ye try him with a merry 

one 
To find his mettle, good ; and if he 

fly us, 
Small matter ! let him.' This her 

damsels heard, 
And, mindful of her small and cruel 

hand, 
They, closing round him thro' the 

journey home, 
Acted her hest, and always from her 

side 




PELLEAS AND ETTARRE 



533 



Restrain'd hini with all manner of 

device, 
So that he could not come to speech 

with her. 
And when she gain'd her castle, up- 

sprang the bridge, 
Down rang the grate of iron thro' the 

groove, 200 

And he was left alone in open 

field. 

' These be the ways of ladies/ Pel- 
leas thought, 

' To those who love them, trials of our 
faith. 

Yea, let her prove me to the utter- 
most, 

For loyal to the uttermost am I. ' 

So made his moan, and, darkness fall- 
ing, sought 

A priory not far off, there lodged, but 
rose 

With morning every day, and, moist 
or dry, 

Full-arm'd upon his charger all day 
long 

Sat by the walls, and no one open'd to 
him. 210 

And this persistence turn'd her scorn 

to wrath. 
Then, calling her three knights, she 

charged them, ' Out ! 
And drive him from the walls/ And 

out they came, 
But Pelleas overthrew them as they 

dash'd 
Against him one by one ; and these 

return'd, 
But still he kept his watch beneath 

the wall. 

Thereon her wrath became a hate ; 

and once, 
A week beyond, while walking on 

the walls 
With her three knights, she pointed 

downward, 'Look, 
He haunts me — I cannot breathe — 

besieges me ! 220 

Down ! strike him ! put my hate into 

your strokes, 
And drive him from my walls/ And 

down they went, 
And Pelleas overthrew them one by 

one ; 



And from the tower above him cried 
Ettarre, 

• Bind him, and bring him in.' 

He heard her voice ; 

Then let the strong hand, which had 
overthrown 

Her minion-knights, by those he over- 
threw 

Be bounden straight, and so they 
brought him in. 

Then when he came before Ettarre, 

the sight 
Of her rich beauty made him at one 

glance 230 

More bondsman in his heart than in 

his bonds. 
Yet with good cheer he spake : ' Be- 
hold me, lady, 
A prisoner, and the vassal of thy will ; 
And if thou keep me in thy donjon 

here, 
Content am I so that I see thy face 
But once a day ; for I have sworn my 

vows, 
And thou hast given thy promise, and 

I know 
That all these pains are trials of my 

faith, 
And that thyself, when thou hast seen 

me strain'd 
And sifted to the utmost, wilt at length 
Yield me thy love and know me for 

thy knight.' 241 

Then she began to rail so bitterly, 
With all her damsels, he was stricken 

mute, 
But, when she mock'd his vows and 

the great King, 
Lighted on words : ' For pity of thine 

own self, 
Peace, lady, peace ; is he not thine and 

mine ? ' 
'Thou fool/ she said, 'I never heard 

his voice 
But long'd to break away. Unbind him 

now, 
And thrust him out of doors ; for saw 

he be 
Fool to the midmost marrow of his 

bones, 250 

He will return no more. ' And those, 

her three, 
Laugh'd, and unbound, and thrust 

him from the gate. 



534 



IDYLLS OF THE KING 



And after this, a week beyond, again 
She call'd them, saying : ' There he 

watches yet, 
There like a dog before his master's 

door! 
Kick'd, he returns; do ye not hate 

him, ye ? 
Ye know yourselves ; how can ye bide 

at peace, 
Affronted with his fulsome innocence ? 
Are ye but creatures of the board and 

bed, 
No men to strike ? Fall on him all at 

once, 260 

And if ye slay him I reck not ; if ye 

fail, 
Give ye the slave mine order to be 

bound, 
Bind him as heretofore, and bring him 

in. 
It may be ye shall slay him in his 

bonds. ' 

She spake, and at her will they 

couch'd their spears, 
Three against one ; and Gawain pass- 
ing by, 
Bound upon solitary adventure, saw 
Low down beneath the shadow of 

those towers 
A villainy, three to one ; and thro' his 

heart 
The fire of honor and all noble deeds 
Flash' d, and he call'd, ' I strike upon 

thy side — 271 

The caitiffs!' 'Nay/ Said Pelleas, 

1 but forbear ; 
He needs no aid who doth his lady's 

will.' 

So Gawain, looking at the villainy 

done, 
Forbore, but in his heat and eagerness 
Trembled and quiver'd, as the dog, 

withheld 
A moment from the vermin that he 

sees 
Before him, shivers ere he springs and 

kills. 

And Pelleas overthrew them, one to 

three ; 
And they rose up, and bound, and 

brought him in. 280 

Then first her anger, leaving Pelleas, 

burn'd 



Full on her knights in many an evil 
name 

Of craven, weakling, and thrice-beaten 
hound : 

' Yet, take him, ye that scarce are fit 
to touch, 

Far less to bind, your victor, and 
thrust him out, 

And let who will release him from his 
bonds. 

And if he comes again ' — there she 
brake short ; 

And Pelleas answer'd : ' Lady, for in- 
deed 

I loved you and I deem'd you beau- 
tiful, 

I cannot brook to see your beauty 
marr'd 290 

Thro' evil spite ; and if ye love me 
not, 

I cannot bear to dream you so for- 
sworn. 

I had liefer ye were worthy of my 
love 

Than to be loved again of you — fare- 
well. 

And tho' ye kill my hope, not yet my 
love, 

Yex not yourself ; ye will not see me 
more.' 

While thus he spake, she gazed 

upon the man 
Of princely bearing, tho' in bonds, and 

thought : 
* Why have I push'd him from me ? 

this man loves, 
If love there be ; yet him I loved not. 

Why ? 300 

I deem'd him fool ? yea, so ? or that 

in him 
A something — was it nobler than my- 
self ?— 
Seem'd my reproach ? He is not of 

my kind. 
He could not love me, did he know 

me well. 
Nay, let him go — and quickly.' And 

her knights 
Laugh'd not, but thrust him bound en 

out of door. 

Forth sprang Gawain, and loosed 
him from his bonds, 
And flung them o'er the walls; and 
afterward, 



PELLEAS AND ETTARRE 



535 



Shaking his hands, as from a lazar's 
rag, 

' Faith of my body/ he said, 'and art 
thou not — 310 

Yea thou art he, whom late our Ar- 
thur made 

Knight of his table ; yea, and he that 
won 

The circlet ? wherefore hast thou so 
defamed 

Thy brotherhood in me and all the rest 

As let these caitiffs on thee work their 
will ? ' 

And Pelleas answer' d : ' O, their 

wills are hers 
For whom I won the circlet ; and 

mine, hers, 
Thus to be bounden, so to see her face, 
Marr'd tho' it be with spite and mock- 
ery now, 
Other than when I found her in the 

woods ; 320 

And tho' she hath me bounden but in 

spite, 
And all to flout me, when they bring 

me in, 
Let me be bounden, I shall see her 

face ; 
Else must I die thro' mine unhappi- 

ness. ' 

And Gawain answer'd kindly tho' 

in scorn: 
■ Why, let my lady bind me if she will, 
And let my lady beat me if she will ; 
But an she send her delegate to thrall 
These fighting hands of mine — Christ 

kill me then 
But I will slice him handle ss by the 

wrist, 330 

And let my lady sear the stump for 

him, 
Howl as he may ! But hold me for 

your friend. 
Come, ye know nothing ; here I pledge 

my troth, 
Yea, by the honor of the Table Round, 
I will be leal to thee and work thy 

work, 
And tame thy jailing princess to thine 

hand. 
Lend me thine horse and arms, and I 

will say 
That I have slain thee. She will let 

me in 



To hear the manner of thy fight and 

fall ; 
Then, when I come within her coun- 
sels, then 340 
From prime to vespers will I chant 

thy praise 
As pro we st knight and truest lover, 

more 
Than any have sung thee living, till 

she long 
To have thee back in lusty life 

again, 
Not to be bound, save by white bonds 

and warm, 
Dearer than freedom. Wherefore now 

thy horse 
And armor ; let me go ; be comforted. 
Give me three days to melt her fancy, 

and hope 
The third night hence will bring thee 

news of gold.' 

Then Pelleas lent his horse and all 

his arms, 350 

Saving the goodly sword, his prize, 

and took 
Gawain's, and said, 'Betray me not, 

but help — 
Art thou not he whom men call light- 

of-love ? ' 

'Ay,' said Gawain, 'for women be 
so light ; ' 

Then bounded forward to the castle 
walls, 

And raised a bugle hanging from his 
neck, 

And winded it, and that so musically 

That all the old echoes hidden in the 
wall 

Rang out like hollow woods at hunt- 
ing-tide. 

Up ran a score of damsels to the 

tower ; 360 

' Avaunt,' they cried, 'our lady loves 

thee not ! ' 
But Gawain lifting up his visor 

said: 
'Gawain am I, Gawain of Arthur's 

court, 
And I have slain this Pelleas whom 

ye hate. 
Behold his horse and armor. Open 

gates, 
And I will make you merry.' 



53^ 



IDYLLS OF THE KING 



And down they ran, 
Her damsels, crying to their lady, 

<Lo! 
Pelleas is dead — he told us — he that 

hath 
His horse and armor ; will ye let him 

in? 
He slew him! Gawain, Gawain of 

the court, 370 

Sir Gawain — there he waits below 

the wall, 
Blowing his bugle as who should say 

him nay.' 

And so, leave given, straight on 

thro' open door 
Rode Gawain, whom she greeted 

courteously. 
'Dead, is it so ?' she ask'd. 'Ay, ay,' 

said he, 
'And oft in dying cried upon your 

name/ 
'Pity on him,' she answer'd, 'a good 

knight, 
But never let me bide one hour at 

peace.' 
'Ay,' thought Gawain, 'and you be 

fair enow ; 
But I to your dead man have given 

my troth, 380 

That whom ye loathe, him will I 

make you love.' 

So those three days, aimless about 

the land, 
Lost in a doubt, Pelleas wandering 
Waited, until the third night brought 

a moon 
With promise of large light on woods 

and ways. 

Hot was the night and silent ; but a 

sound 
Of Gawain ever coming, and this lay — 
Which Pelleas had heard sung before 

the Queen, 
And seen her sadden listening — vext 

his heart, 
And marr'd his rest — ' A worm within 

the rose.' 39 o 



' A rose, but one, none other rose had I, 
A rose, one rose, and this was wondrous 

fair, 
One rose, a rose that gladden'd earth and 

sky, 



One rose, my rose, that sweeten' d all mine 

air — 
I cared not for the thorns ; the thorns were 

there. 

1 One rose, a rose to gather by and by, 
One rose, a rose, to gather and "to wearj 
No rose but one — what other rose had I ? 
One rose, my rose ; a rose that will not die, — 
He dies who loves it, — if the worm be 
there.' 400 

This tender rhyme, and evermore 

the doubt, 
' Why lingers Gawain with his golden 

news ? ' 
So shook him that he could not rest, 

but rode 
Ere midnight to her walls, and bound 

his horse 
Hard by the gates. Wide open were 

the gates, 
And no watch kept ; and in thro' these 

he past, 
And heard but his own steps, and his 

own heart 
Beating, for nothing moved but his 

own self 
And his own shadow. Then he crost 

the court, 
And spied not any light in hall or 

bower, 410 

But saw the postern portal also wide 
Yawning ; and up a slope of garden, 

all 
Of roses white and red, and brambles 

mixt 
And overgrowing them, went on, and 

found, 
Here too, all hush'd below the mellow 

moon, 
Save that one rivulet from a tiny cave 
Came lightening downward, and so 

spilt itself 
Among the roses and was lost again. 

Then was he ware of three pavilions 

rear'd 
Above the bushes, gilden-peakt. In 

one, 420 

Red after revel, droned her lurdane 

knights 
Slumbering, and their three squires 

across their feet ; 
In one, their malice on the placid lip 
Frozen by sweet sleep, four of her 

damsels lay ; 



PELLEAS AND ETTARRE 



537 



And in the third, the circlet of the 

jousts 
Bound on her brow, were Gawain and 

Ettarre. 

Back, as a hand that pushes thro' 

the leaf 
To find a nest and feels a snake, he 

drew; 
Back, as a coward slinks from what 

he fears 
To cope with, or a traitor proven, or 

hound 430 

Beaten, did Pelleas in an utter shame 
Creep with his shadow thro' the court 

again, 
Fingering at his sword-handle until 

he stood 
There on the castle-bridge once more, 

and thought, 
1 I will go back, and slay them where 

they lie.' 

And so went back, and seeing them 

yet in sleep 
Said, ' Ye, that so dishallow the holy 

sleep, 
Your sleep is death,' and drew the 

sword, and thought, 
1 What ! slay a sleeping knight ? the 

King hath bound 
And sworn me to this brotherhood;' 

again, 44 o 

1 Alas that ever a knight should be so 

false!' 
Then turn'd, and so return'd, and 

groaning laid 
The naked sword athwart their naked 

throats, 
There left it, and them sleeping ; and 

she lay, 
The circlet of the tourney round her 

brows, 
And the sword of the tourney across 

her throat. 

And forth he past, and mounting 

on his horse 
Stared at her towers that, larger than 

themselves 
In their own darkness, throng'd into 

the moon ; 
Then crush' d the saddle with his 

thighs, and clench'd 450 

His hands, and madden'd with himself 

and moan'd : 



' Would they have risen against me 

in their blood 
At the last day ? I might have an- 

swer'd them 
Even before high God. O towers so 

strong, 
Huge, solid, would that even while I 

gaze 
The crack of earthquake shivering to 

your base 
Split you, and hell burst up your har- 
lot roofs 
Bellowing, and charr'd you thro' and 

thro' within, 
Black as the harlot's heart — hollow 

as a skull ! 
Let the fierce east scream thro' your 

eyelet-holes, 4 6o 

And whirl the dust of harlots round 

and round 
In dung and nettles! hiss, snake — I 

saw him there — 
Let the fox bark, let the wolf yell ! 

Who yells 
Here in the still sweet summer night 

but I — 
I, the poor Pelleas whom she call'd 

her fool ? 
Fool, beast — he, she, or I ? myself 

most fool ; 
Beast too, as lacking human wit — 

disgraced, 
Dishonor'd all for trial of true love — 
Love ? — we be all alike ; only the King 
Hath made us fools and liars. O 

noble vows ! 47 o 

great and sane and simple race of 

brutes 
That own no lust because they have 

no law ! 
For why should I have loved her to 

my shame ? 

1 loathe her, as I loved her to my 

shame. 
I never loved her, I but lusted for 

her — 
Away ! ' — 

He dash'd the rowel into his horse, 
And bounded forth and vanish'd thro' 
the night. 

Then she, that felt the cold touch 
on her throat, 
Awaking knew the sword, and turn'd 
herself 



538 



IDYLLS OF THE KING 



To Gawain : ' Liar, for thou hast not 

slain 480 

This Pelleas! here he stood, and 

might have slain 
Me and thyself.' And he that tells 

the tale 
Says that her ever-veering fancy 

turn'd 
To Pelleas, as the one true knight on 

earth 
And only lover; and thro' her love 

her life 
Wasted and pined, desiring him in 

vain. 

But he by wild and way, for half 

the night, 
And over hard and soft, striking the 

sod 
From out the soft, the spark from off 

the hard, 
Kode till the star above the wakening 

sun, 49° 

Beside that tower where Percivale 

was cowl'd, 
Glanced from the rosy forehead of the 

dawn. 
For so the words were flash'd into his 

heart 
He knew not whence or wherefore : 

1 O sweet star, 
Pure on the virgin forehead of the 

dawn ! ' 
And there he would have wept, but 

felt his eyes 
Harder and drier than a fountain bed 
In summer. Thither came the village 

girls 
And linger'd talking, and they came 

no more 
Till the sweet heavens have fill'd it 

from the heights 500 

Again with living waters in the 

change 
Of seasons. Hard his eyes, harder 

his heart 
Seem'd ; but so weary were his limbs 

that he, 
Gasping, ' Of Arthur's hall am I, but 

here, 
Here let me rest and die,' cast himself 

down, 
And gulf d his griefs in inmost sleep ; 

so lay, 
Till shaken by a dream, that Gawain 

fired 



The hall of Merlin, and the morning 

star 
Reel'd in the smoke, brake into flame, 

and fell. 

He woke, and being ware of some 
one nigh, 510 

Sent hands upon him, as to tear him, 
crying, 

* False ! and I held thee pure as Guine- 
vere.' 

But Percivale stood near him and 

replied, 
'Am I but false as Guinevere is 

pure ? 
Or art thou mazed with dreams ? or 

being one 
Of our free-spoken Table hast not 

heard 
That Lancelot ■ — there he check'd 

himself and paused. 

Then fared it with Sir Pelleas as 

with one 
Who gets a wound in battle, and the 

sword 
That made it plunges thro' the wound 

again, 520 

And pricks it deeper ; and he shrank 

and wail'd, 
1 Is the Queen false?' and Percivale 

was mute. 
1 Have any of our Round Table held 

their vows ? ' 
And Percivale made answer not a 

word. 
'Is the King true?' 'The King!' 

said Percivale. 
1 Why, then let men couple at once 

with wolves. 
What ! art thou mad ? ' 

But Pelleas, leaping up, 
Ran thro' the doors and vaulted on his 

horse 
And fled. Small pity upon his horse 

had he, 
Or on himself, or any, and when he 

met 530 

A cripple, one that held a hand for 

alms — 
Hunch'd as he was, and like an old 

dwarf- elm 
That turns its back on the salt blast, 

the boy 



PELLEAS AND ETTARRE 



539 



Paused not, but overrode him, shout- 
ing, 'False, 

And false with Gawain ! ' and so left 
him bruised 

And batter' d, and fled on, and hill and 
wood 

Went ever streaming by him till the 
gloom 

That follows on the turning of the 
world 

Darkend the common path. He 
twitch'd the reins, 

And made his beast, that better knew 
it, swerve 540 

Now off it and now on ; but when he 
saw 

High up in heaven the hall that Mer- 
lin built, 

Blackening against the dead-green 
stripes of even, 

' Black nest of rats/ he groan'd, ' ye 
build too high.' 

Not long thereafter from the city 



Issued Sir Lancelot riding airily, 

Warm with a gracious parting from 
the Queen, 

Peace at his heart, and gazing at a 
star 

And marvelling what it was ; on whom 
the boy, 

Across the silent seeded meadow- 
grass 550 

Borne, clash'd ; and Lancelot, saying, 
' What name hast thou 

That rid est here so blindly and so 
hard ? ' 

I No name, no name,' he shouted, ' a 

scourge am I 
To lash the treasons of the Table 

Round.' 
* Yea, but thy name ? ' 'I have many 

names,' he cried : 

I I am wrath and shame and hate and 

evil fame, 
And like a poisonous wind I pass to 

blast 
And blaze the crime of Lancelot and 

the Queen.' 
'First over me,' said Lancelot, 'shalt 

thou pass.' 
'Fight therefore,' yell'd the youth, 

and either knight . 560 

Drew back a space, and when they 

closed, at once 



The weary steed of Pelleas flounder- 
ing flung 
His rider, who call'd out from the 

dark field, 
'Thou art false as hell; slay me, I 

have no sword.' 
Then Lancelot, 'Yea, between thy 

lips — and sharp ; 
But here will I disedge it by thy 

death. ' 
' Slay then,' he shriek'd, ' my will is 

to be slain,' 
And Lancelot, with his heel upon the 

fallen, 
Rolling his eyes, a moment stood, then 

spake : 
' Rise, weakling ; I am Lancelot ; say 

thy say.' 570 

And Lancelot slowly rode his war- 
horse back 
To Camelot, and Sir Pelleas in brief 

while 
Caught his unbroken limbs from the 

dark field, 
And follow'd to the city. It chanced 

that both 
Brake into hall together, worn and 

pale. 
There with her knights and dames was 

Guinevere. 
Full wonderingly she gazed on Lance- 
lot 
So soon return'd, and then on Pelleas, 

him 
Who had not greeted her, but cast 

himself 
Down on a bench, hard -breathing. 

' Have ye fought ? ' 580 

She ask'd of Lancelot. 'Ay, my 

Queen,' he said. 
'And thou hast overthrown him?' 

'Ay, my Queen.' 
Then she, turning to Pelleas, ' O young 

knight, 
Hath the great heart of knighthood in 

thee fail'd 
So far thou canst not bide, unfro- 

wardly, 
A fall from him f ' Then, for he an- 

swer'd not, 
' Or hast thou other griefs ? If I, the 

Queen, 
May help them, loose thy tongue, and 

let me know.' 
But Pelleas lifted up an eye so fierce 



54Q 



IDYLLS OF THE KING 



She quail'd ; and he, hissing 'I have 

no sword,' 590 

Sprang from the door into the dark. 

The Queen 
Look'd hard upon her lover, he on 

her, 
And each foresaw the dolorous day to 

be; 
And all talk died, as in a grove all 

song 
Beneath the shadow of some bird of 

prey. 
Then a long silence came upon the 

hall, 
And Modred thought, ' The time is 

hard at hand. ' 



THE LAST TOURNAMENT 

Dagonet, the fool, whom Gawain in 

his mood 
Had made mock-knight of Arthur's 

Table Round, 
At Camelot, high above the yellowing 

woods, 
Danced like a wither'd leaf before the 

hall. 
And toward him from the hall, with 

harp in hand, 
And from the crown thereof a carca- 

net 
Of ruby swaying to and fro, the 

prize 
Of Tristram in the jousts of yesterday, 
Came Tristram, saying, ' Why skip ye 

so, Sir Fool?' 

For Arthur and Sir Lancelot riding 
once . 10 

Far down beneath a winding wall of 
rock 

Heard a child wail. A stump of oak 
half -dead, 

From roots like some black coil of 
carven snakes, 

Clutch' d at the crag, and started thro' 
mid air 

Bearing an eagle's nest ; and thro' the 
tree 

Rush'd ever a rainy wind, and thro' 
the wind 

Pierced ever a child's cry ; and crag 
and tree 

Scaling, Sir Lancelot from the peril- 
ous nest, 



This ruby necklace thrice around her 

neck, 
And all unscarr'd from beak or talon, 

brought 20 

A maiden babe, which Arthur pitying 

took, 
Then gave it to his Queen to rear. 

The Queen, 
But coldly acquiescing, in her white 

arms 
Received, and after loved it tenderly, 
And named it Nestling ; so forgot her- 
self 
A moment, and her cares ; till that 

young life 
Being smitten in mid heaven with 

mortal cold 
Past from her, and in time the car- 

canet 
Vext her with plaintive memories of 

the child. 
So she, delivering it to Arthur, said, 30 
'Take thou the jewels of this dead 

innocence, 
And make them, an thou wilt, a 

tourney -prize/ 

To whom the King : ' Peace to 

thine eagle-borne 
Dead nestling, and this honor after 

death, 
Following thy will ! but, O my Queen, 

I muse 
Why ye not wear on arm, or neck, or 

zone 
Those diamonds that I rescued from 

the tarn, 
And Lancelot won, methought, for 

thee to w r ear.' 

'Would rather you had let them 
fall,' she cried, 

' Plunge and be lost — ill-fated as they 
were, 40 

A bitterness to me ! — ye look amazed, 

Not knowing they were lost as soon as 
given — 

Slid from my hands when I was lean- 
ing out 

Above the river — that unhappy child 

Past in her barge ; but rosier luck will 
go 

With these rich jewels, seeing that 
they came 

Not from the skeleton of a brother- 
slayer, 



THE LAST TOURNAMENT 



54i 



But the sweet body of a maiden babe. 
Perchance — who knows ? — the purest 

of thy knights 
May win them for the purest of my 

maids/ 50 

She ended, and the cry of a great 

j ousts 
With trumpet-blowings ran on all the 

ways 
From Camelot in among the faded 

fields 
To furthest towers ; and everywhere 

the knights 
Arm'd for a day of glory before the 

King. 

But on the hither side of that loud 
morn 

Into the hall stagger'd, his visage 
ribb'd 

From ear to ear with dogwhip-weals, 
his nose 

Bridge-broken, one eye out, and one 
hand off, 

And one with shatter'd fingers dan- 
gling lame, 60 

A churl, to whom indignantly the 
King : 

'My churl, for whom Christ died, 

what evil beast 
Hath drawn his claws athwart thy 

face ? or fiend ? 
Man was it who marr'd heaven's image 

in thee thus? ' 

Then, sputtering thro' the hedge of 

splinter' d teeth, 
Yet strangers to the tongue, and with 

blunt stump 
Pitch-blacken' d sawing the air, said 

the maim'd churl : 

' He took them and he drave them 

to his tower — 
Some hold he was a table-knight of 

thine — 
A hundred goodly ones — the Red 

Knight, he — 70 

Lord, I was tending swine, and the 

Red Knight 
Brake in upon me and drave them to 

his tower ; 
And when I call'd upon thy name as 

one 



That doest right by gentle and by 

churl, 
Maim'd me and maul'd, and would out- 
right have slain, 
Save that he sware me to a message, 

saying : 
"Tell thou the King and all his liars 

that I 
Have founded my Round Table in the 

North, 
And whatsoever his own knights have 

sworn 
My knights have sworn the counter to 

it — and say 80 

My tower is full of harlots, like his 

court, 
But mine are worthier, seeing they 

profess 
To be none other than themselves — 

and say 
My knights are all adulterers like his 

own, 
But mine are truer, seeing they pro- 
fess 
To be none other : and say his hour is 

come, 
The heathen are upon him, his long 

lance 
Broken, and his Excalibur a straw."' 

Then Arthur turn'd to Kay the sen- 
eschal : 

' Take thou my churl, and tend him 
curiously 90 

Like a king's heir, till all his hurts be 
whole. 

The heathen — but that ever-climbing 
wave, 

Hurl'd back again so often in empty 
foam, 

Hath lain for years at rest — and rene- 
gades, 

Thieves, bandits, leavings of confu- 
sion, whom 

The wholesome realm is purged of 
otherwhere, 

Friends, thro' your manhood and your 
fealty, — now 

Make their last head like Satan in the 
North. 

My younger knights, new-made, in 
whom your flower 

Waits to be solid fruit of golden 
deeds, 100 

Move with me toward their quelling, 
which achieved, 



542 



IDYLLS OF THE KING 



The loneliest ways are safe from shore 

to shore. 
But thou, Sir Lancelot, sitting in my 

place 
Enchair'd to-morrow, arbitrate the 

field; 
For wherefore shouldst thou care to 

mingle with it, 
Only to yield my Queen her own 

again ? 
Speak, Lancelot, thou art silent ; is it 

well?' 

Thereto Sir Lancelot answer'd : ' It 

is well ; 
Yet better if the King abide, and 

leave 
The leading of his younger knights to 

me. no 

Else, for the King has will'd it, it is 

well.' 

Then Arthur rose and Lancelot fol- 
low'd him, 

And while they stood without the 
doors, the King 

Turn'd to him, saying : ' Is it then so 
well ? 

Or mine the blame that oft I seem as 
he 

Of whom was written, ' ' A sound is in 
his ears" ? 

The foot that loiters, bidden go, — the 
glance 

That only seems half-loyal to com- 
mand, — 

A manner somewhat fallen from rever- 
ence — 

Or have I dream' d the bearing of our 
knights 120 

Tells of a manhood ever less and 
lower ? 

Or whence the fear lest this my realm, 
uprear'd, 

By noble deeds at one with noble 
vows, 

From fiat confusion and brute vio- 
lences, 

Reel back into the beast, and be no 
more ? ' 

He spoke, and taking all his younger 
knights, 
Down the slope city rode, and sharply 
turn'd 



North by the gate. In her high bower 

the Queen, 
Working a tapestry, lifted up her 

head, 
Watch' d her lord pass, and knew not 

that she sigh'd. i 3 o 

Then ran across her memory the 

strange rhyme 
Of bygone Merlin, ' Where is he who 

knows ? 
From the great deep to the great deep 

he goes.' 

But when the morning of a tourna- 
ment, 

By these in earnest those in mockery 
call'd 

The Tournament of the Dead Inno- 
cence, 

Brake with a wet wind blowing, Lan- 
celot, 

Round whose sick head all night, like 
birds of prey, 

The words of Arthur flying shriek'd, 
arose, 

And down a street way hung with folds 
of pure i 4 o 

White samite, and by fountains run- 
ning wine, 

Where children sat in white with cups 
of gold, 

Moved to the lists, and there, with 
slow sad steps 

Ascending, fill'd his double-dragon' d 
chair. 

He glanced and saw the stately gal- 
leries, 

Dame, damsel, each thro' worship of 
their Queen 

White-robed in honor of the stainless 
child, 

And some with scatter'd jewels, like a 
bank 

Of maiden snow mingled with sparks 
of fire. 

He look'd but once, and vail'd his eyes 
again. 150 

The sudden trumpet sounded as in a 

dream 
To ears but half-awaked, then one low 

roll 
Of autumn thunder, and the jousts 

began ; 



THE LAST TOURNAMENT 



543 



And ever the wind blew, and yellow- 
ing leaf, 

And gloom and gleam, and shower and 
shorn plume 

Went down it. Sighing weariedly, as 
one 

Who sits and gazes on a faded fire, 

When all the goodlier guests are past 



Sat their great umpire looking o'er the 

lists. 
He saw the laws that ruled the tourna- 
ment 1 60 
Broken, but spake not ; once, a knight 

cast down 
Before his throne of arbitration cursed 
The dead babe and the follies of the 

King; 
And once the laces of a helmet crack'd, 
And show'd him, like a vermin in its 

hole, 
Modred, a narrow face. Anon he 

heard 
The voice that billow'd round the bar- 
riers roar 
An ocean-sounding welcome to one 

knight, 
But newly-enter'd, taller than the rest, 
And armor'd all in forest green, 

whereon 170 

There tript a hundred tiny silver deer, 
And wearing but a holly-spray for 

crest, 
With ever- scattering berries, and on 

shield 
A spear, a harp, a bugle — Tristram 

— late 
From over-seas in Brittany return' d, 
And marriage with a princess of that 

realm, 
Isolt the White — Sir Tristram of the 

Woods — 
Whom Lancelot knew, had held some- 
time with pain 
His own against him, and now yearn'd 

to shake 
The burthen off his heart in one full 

shock 180 

With Tristram even to death. His 

strong hands gript 
And dinted the gilt dragons right and 

left, 
Until he groan'd for wrath — so many 

of those 
That ware their ladies' colors on the 

casque 



Drew from before Sir Tristram to the 

bounds, 
And there with gibes and flickering 

mockeries 
Stood, while he mutter' d, ' Craven 

crests ! O shame ! 
What faith have these in whom they 

sware to love ? 
The glory of our Bound Table is no 

more.' 

So Tristram won, and Lancelot 

gave, the gems, 190 

Not speaking other word than, 'Hast 

thou won ? 
Art thou the purest, brother ? See, 

the hand 
Wherewith thou takest this is red!' 

to whom 
Tristram, half plagued by Lancelot's 

languorous mood, 
Made answer: 'Ay, but wherefore 

toss me this 
Like a dry bone cast to some hungry 

hound ? 
Let be thy fair Queen's fantasy. 

Strength of heart 
And might of limb, but mainly use 

and skill, 
Are winners in this pastime of our 

King. 
My hand — belike the lance hath dript 

upon it — 200 

No blood of mine, I trow ; but O chief 

knight, 
Right arm of Arthur in the battle- 
field, 
Great brother, thou nor I have made 

the world ; 
Be happy in thy fair Queen as I in 

mine.' 

And Tristram round the gallery 
made his horse 

Caracole; then bow'd his homage, 
bluntly saying, 

1 Fair damsels, each to him who wor- 
ships each 

Sole Queen of Beauty and of love, be- 
hold 

This day my Queen of Beauty is not 
here.' 

And most of these were mute, some 
anger'd, one 210 

Murmuring, 'All courtesy is dead,' 
and one, 



544 



IDYLLS OF THE KING 



' The glory of our Round Table is no 
more.' 

Then fell thick rain, plume droopt 

and mantle clung, 
And pettish cries awoke, and the wan 

day 
Went glooming down in wet and 

weariness ; 
But under her black brows a swarthy 

one 
Laugh' d shrilly, crying: 'Praise the 

patient saints, 
Our one white day of Innocence hath 

past, 
Tho' somewhat draggled at the skirt. 

So be it. 
The snowdrop only, flowering thro' 

the year, 220 

Would make the world as blank as 

winter tide. 
Come — let us gladden their sad eyes, 

our Queen's 
And Lancelot's, at this night's solem- 
nity 
With all the kindlier colors of the 

field.' 

So dame and damsel glitter'd at the 

feast 
Variously gay; for he that tells the 

tale 
Liken'd them, saying, as when an 

hour of cold 
Falls on the mountain in midsummer 

snows, 
And all the purple slopes of mountain 

flowers 
Pass under white, till the warm hour 

returns 230 

With veer of wind and all are flowers 

again, 
So dame and damsel cast the simple 

white, 
And glowing in all colors, the live 

grass, 
Rose - campion, bluebell, kingcup, 

poppy, glanced 
About the revels, and with mirth so 

loud 
Beyond all use, that, half-amazed, 

the Queen, 
And wroth at Tristram and the law- 
less jousts, 
Brake up their sports, then slowly to 

her bower 



Parted, and in her bosom pain was 
lord. 

And little Dagonet on the morrow 

morn, 240 

High over all the yellowing autumn- 
tide, 
Danced like a wither'd leaf before the 

hall. 
Then Tristram saying, ' Why skip ye 

so, Sir Fool ? ' 
Wheel'd round on either heel, Da- 
gonet replied, 
* Belike for lack of wiser company ; 
Or being fool, and seeing too much wit 
Makes the world rotten, why, belike 

I skip 
To know myself the wisest knight of 

all.' 
'Ay, fool/ said Tristram, 'but 't is 

eating dry 
To dance without a catch, a roundelay 
To dance to.' Then he twangled on 

his harp, 251 

And while he twangled little Dagonet 

stood 
Quiet as any water-sodden log 
Stay'd in the wandering warble of a 

brook, 
But when the twangling ended, skipt 

again ; 
And being ask'd, ' Why skipt ye not, 

Sir Fool?' 
Made answer, 'I had liefer twenty 

years 
Skip to the broken music of my brains 
Than any broken music thou canst 

make.' 
Then Tristram, waiting for the quip 

to come, 260 

' Good now, what music have I broken, 

fool?' 
And little Dagonet, skipping, ' Arthur, 

the King's ; 
For when thou playest that air with 

Queen Isolt, 
Thou makest broken music with thy 

bride, 
Her daintier namesake down in Brit- 
tany — 
And so thou breakest Arthur's music 

too.' 
'Save for that broken music in thy 

brains, 
Sir Fool,' said Tristram, 'I would 

break thy head. 



THE LAST TOURNAMENT 



545 



Fool, I came late, the heathen wars 

were o'er, 
The life had flown, we sware but by 

the shell — 270 

I am but a fool to reason with a fool — 
Come, thou art crabb'd and sour ; but 

lean me down, 
Sir Dagonet, one of thy long asses' 

ears, 
And harken if my music be not true. 

'"Free love — free field — we love but 
while we may. 

The woods are hush'd, their music is no 
more ; 

The leaf is dead, the yearning past away. 

New leaf, new life — the days of frost are 
o'er; 

New life, new love, to suit the newer day; 

New loves are sweet as those that went be- 
fore. 280 

Free love — free field — we love but while 
we may." 

'Ye might have moved slow-mea- 
sure to my tune, 

Not stood stock-still. I made it in 
the woods, 

And heard it ring as true as tested 
gold.' 

But Dagonet with one foot poised 

in his hand : 
'Friend, did ye mark that fountain 

yesterday, 
Made to run wine ? — but this had 

run itself 
All out like a long life to a sour 

end — 
And them that round it sat with 

golden cups 
To hand the wine to whosoever came — 
The twelve small damosels white as 

Innocence, 291 

In honor of poor Innocence the babe, 
Who left the gems which Innocence 

the Queen 
Lent to the King, and Innocence the 

King 
Gave for a prize — and one of those 

white slips 
Handed her cup and piped, the pretty 

one, 
"Drink, drink, Sir Fool," and there- 
upon I drank, 
Spat — pish — the cup was gold, the 

draught was mud.' 



And Tristram : ' Was it muddier 

than thy gibes ? 
Is all the laughter gone dead out of 

thee ? — 300 

Not marking how the knighthood 

mock thee, fool — 
"Fear God: honor the King — his 

one true knight — 
Sole follower of the vows " — for here 

be they 
Who knew thee swine enow before I 

came, 
Smuttier than blasted grain. But 

when the King 
Had made thee fool, thy vanity so 

shot up 
It frighted all free fool from out thy 

heart ; 
Which left thee less than fool, and 

less than swine, 
A naked aught — yet swine I hold 

thee still, 
For I have flung thee pearls and find 

thee swine.' 310 

And little Dagonet mincing with 

his feet : 
' Knight, an ye fling those rubies 

round my neck 
In lieu of hers, I'll hold thou hast 

some touch 
Of music, since I care not for thy 

pearls. 
Swine? I have wallow'd, I have 

wash'd — the world 
Is flesh and shadow — I have had my 

day. 
The dirty nurse, Experience, in her 

kind 
Hath foul'd me — an I wallow'd, then 

I wash'd — 
I have had my day and my philoso- 
phies — 
And thank the Lord I am King Ar- 
thur's fool. 320 
Swine, say ye ? swine, goats, asses, 

rams, and geese 
Troop' d round a Paynim harper once, 

who thrumm'd 
On such a wire as musically as 

thou 
Some such fine song — but never a 

king's fool.' 

And Tristram, 'Then were swine, 
goats, asses, geese 



546 



IDYLLS OF THE KING 



The wiser fools, seeing thy Paynim 

bard 
Had such a mastery of his mystery 
That he could harp his wife up out of 

hell/ 

Then Dagonet, turning on the ball 

of his foot, 
1 And whither harp'st thou thine ? 

down! and thyself 330 

Down ! and two more ; a helpful 

harper thou, 
That harpest downward ! Dost thou 

know the star 
We call the Harp of Arthur up in 

heaven ? ' 

And Tristram, 'Ay, Sir Fool, for 

when our King 
Was victor wellnigh day by day, the 

knightf, 
Glorying in each new glory, set his 

name 
High on all hills and in the signs of 

heaven.' 

And Dagonet answer'd : ' Ay, and 

when the land 
Was freed, and the Queen false, ye 

set yourself 
To babble about him, all to show your 

wit — 340 

And whether he were king by cour 

tesy, 
Or king by right — and so went harp- 
ing down 
The black king's highway, got so far 

and grew 
So witty that ye play'd at ducks and 

drakes 
With Arthur's vows on the great lake 

of fire. 
Tuwhoo ! do ye see it ? do ye see the 

star ? ' 

1 Nay, fool,' said Tristram, 'not in 

open day.' 
And Dagonet : ' Nay, nor will ; I see 

it and hear. 
It makes a silent music up in heaven, 
And I and Arthur and the angels 

hear, 350 

And then we skip.' ' Lo, fool,' he 

said, ' ye talk 
Fool's treason ; is the King thy brother 

fool?' 



Then little Dagonet clapt his hands 

and shrill' d: 
1 Ay, ay, my brother fool, the king of 

fools ! 
Conceits himself as God that he can 

make 
Figs out of thistles, silk from bristles, 

milk 
From burning spurge, honey from 

hornet-combs, 
And men from beasts — Long live the 

king of fools ! ' 

And down the city Dagonet danced 
away ; 

But thro' the slowly-mellowing ave- 
nues 360 

And solitary passes of the wood 

Rode Tristram toward Lyonnesse and 
the west. 

Before him fled the face of Queen 
Isolt 

With ruby-circled neck, but evermore 

Past, as a rustle or twitter in the 
wood 

Made dull his inner, keen his outer 
eye 

For all that walk'd, or crept, or 
perch'd, or flew. 

Anon the face, as, when a gust hath 
blown, 

Unruffling waters re-collect the shape 

Of one that in them sees himself, re- 
turn' d ; 370 

But at the slot or fewmets of a deer, 

Or even a fallen feather, vanish'd 
again. 

So on for all that day from lawn to 

lawn 
Thro' many a league-long bower he 

rode. At length 
A lodge of intertwisted beechen- 

boughs, 
Furze-cramm'd and bracken-rooft, the 

which himself 
Built for a summer day with Queen 

Isolt 
Against a shower, dark in the golden 

grove 
Appearing, sent his fancy back to 

where 
She lived a moon in that low lodge 

with him ; 380 

Till Mark her lord had past, the Cor- 
nish King, 



THE LAST TOURNAMENT 



547 



With six or seven, when Tristram was 
away, 

And snatch'd her thence, yet, dread- 
ing worse than shame 

Her warrior Tristram, spake not any 
word, 

But bode his hour, devising wretched- 
ness. 

And now that desert lodge to Tris- 
tram lookt 

So sweet that, halting, in he past and 
sank 

Down on a drift of foliage random- 
blown ; 

But could not rest for musing how to 
smooth 

And sleek his marriage over to the 
queen. 39 o 

Perchance in lone Tintagil far from 
all 

The tonguesters of the court she had 
not heard. 

But then what folly had sent him over- 



After she left him lonely here ? a 

name? 
Was it the name of one in Brittany, 
Isolt, the daughter of the king? 

< Isolt 
Of the White Hands' they call'd her : 

the sweet name 
Allured him first, and then the maid 

herself, 
Who served him well with those white 

hands of hers, 
And loved him well, until himself had 

thought 4 oo 

He loved her also, wedded easily, 
But left her all as easily, and return'd. 
The black-blue Irish hair and Irish 

eyes 
Had drawn him home — what marvel ? 

then he laid 
His brows upon the drifted leaf and 

dream' d. 

He seem'd to pace the strand of 

Brittany 
Between Isolt of Britain and his bride, 
And show'd them both the ruby-chain, 

and both 
Began to struggle for it, till his 

queen 
Graspt it so hard that all her hand was 

red. 410 



Then cried the Breton, 'Look, her 

hand is red ! 
These be no rubies, this is frozen 

blood, 
And melts within her hand — her hand 

is hot 
With ill desires, but this I gave thee, 

look, 
Is all as cool and white as any flower.' 
Follow' d a rush of eagle's wings, and 

then 
A whimpering of the spirit of the 

child, 
Because the twain had spoil' d her car- 
can et. 

He dream'd ; but Arthur with a 

hundred spears 
Rode far, till o'er the illimitable reed, 
And many a glancing plash and sal- 

lowy isle, 421 

The wide-wing'd sunset of the misty 

marsh 
Glared on a huge machicolated tower 
That stood with open doors, whereout 

was roll'd 
A roar of riot, as from men secure 
Amid their marshes, ruffians at their 

ease 
Among their harlot-brides, an evil 

song. 
' Lo there,' said one of Arthur's youth, 

for there, 
High on a grim dead tree before the 

tower, 
A goodly brother of the Table Round 
Swung by the neck ; and on the 

boughs a shield 431 

Showing a shower of blood in a field 

noir, 
And therebeside a horn, inflamed the 

knights 
At that dishonor done the gilded 

spur, 
Till each would clash the shield and 

blow the horn. 
But Arthur waved them back. Alone 

he rode. 
Then at the dry harsh roar of the 

great horn, 
That sent the face of all the marsh 

aloft 
An ever upward-rushing storm and 

cloud 
Of shriek and plume, the Red Knight 

heard, and all, 440 



548 



IDYLLS OF THE KING 



Even to tipmost lance and topmost 

helm, 
In blood-red armor sallying, howl'd to 

the King : 

'The teeth of Hell flay bare and 

gnash thee flat ! — 
Lo ! art thou not that eunuch-hearted 

king 
Who fain had dipt free manhood from 

the world — 
The woman- worshipper ? Yea, God's 

curse, and I ! 
Slain was the brother of my paramour 
By a knight of thine, and I that heard 

her whine 
And snivel, being eunuch-hearted too, 
Sware by the scorpion-worm that 

twists in hell 450 

And stings itself to everlasting death, 
To hang whatever knight of thine I 

fought 
And tumbled. Art thou king ? — Look 

to thy life ! ' 

He ended. Arthur knew the voice ; 

the face 
Wellnigh was helmet-hidden, and the 

name 
Went wandering somewhere darkling 

in his mind. 
And Arthur deign' d not use of word 

or sword, 
But let the drunkard, as he stretch' d 

from horse 
To strike him, overbalancing his bulk, 
Down from the causeway heavily to 

the swamp 460 

Fall, as the crest of some slow-arching 

wave, 
Heard in dead night along that table- 
shore, 
Drops flat, and after the great waters 

break 
Whitening for half a league, and thin 

themselves, 
Far over sands marbled with moon 

and cloud, 
From less and less to nothing ; thus 

he fell 
He ad -heavy. Then the knights, who 

watch'd him, roar'd 
And shouted and leapt down upon 

the fallen, 
There trampled out his face from be- 
ing known, 



And sank his head in mire, and slimed 
themselves ; 47 o 

Nor heard the King for their own 
cries, but sprang 

Thro' open doors, and swording right 
and left 

Men, women, on their sodden faces, 
hurl'd 

The tables over and the wines, and 
slew 

Till all the rafters rang with woman- 
yells, 

And all the pavement stream'd with 
massacre. 

Then, echoing yell with yell, they 
fired the tower, 

Which half that autumn night, like 
the live North, 

Red-pulsing up thro' Alioth and Alcor, 

Made all above it, and a hundred 
meres 480 

About it, as the water Moab saw 

Come round by the east, and out be- 
yond them flush' d 

The long low dune and lazy-plunging 
sea. 

So all the ways were safe from shore 
to shore, 
But in the heart of Arthur pain was 
lord. 

Then, out of Tristram waking, the 

red dream 
Fled with a shout, and that low lodge 

return'd, 
Mid-forest, and the wind among the 

boughs. 
He whistled his good war-horse left to 

graze 
Among the forest greens, vaulted upon 

him, 490 

And rode beneath an ever-showering 

leaf, 
Till one lone woman, weeping near a 

cross, 
Stay'd him. ' Why weep ye ? ' * Lord, ' 

she said, ' my man 
Hath left me or is dead ; ' whereon he 

thought — 
' What, if she hate me now ? I would 

not this. 
What, if she love me still ? I would 

not that. 
I know not what I would ' — but said 

to her, 



THE LAST TOURNAMENT 



549 



' Yet weep not thou, lest, if thy mate 

return, 
He find thy favor changed and love 

thee not ' — 
Then pressing day by day thro' Lyon- 

nesse 500 

Last in a roky hollow, belling, heard 
The hounds of Mark, and felt the 

goodly hounds 
Yelp at his heart, but, turning, past 

and gain'd 
Tintagil, half in sea and high on land, 
A crown of towers. 

Down in a casement sat, 
A low sea- sunset glorying round her 

hair 
And glossy-throated grace, Isolt the 

queen. 
And when she heard the feet of Tris- 
tram grind 
The spiring stone that scaled about 

her tower, 
Flush'd, started, met him at the doors, 

and there 510 

Belted his body with her white em- 
brace, 
Crying aloud : ' Not Mark — not Mark, 

my soul ! 
The footstep flutter'd me at first — not 

he! 
Catlike thro' his own castle steals my 

Mark, 
But warrior- wise thou stridest thro' 

his halls 
Who hates thee, as I him — even to 

the death. 
My soul, I felt my hatred for my Mark 
Quicken within me, and knew that 

thou wert nigh.' 
To whom Sir Tristram smiling, ' I am 

here ; 
Let be thy Mark, seeing he is not thine.' 

And drawing somewhat backward 

she replied : 521 

■ Can he be wrong'd who is not even 

his own, 
But save for dread of thee had beaten 

me, 
Scratch'd, bitten, blinded, marr'd me 

somehow — Mark ? 
What rights are his that dare not 

strike for them ? 
Not lift a hand — not, tho' he found 

me thus ! 



But harken ! have ye met him ? hence 

he went 
To-day for three days' hunting — as 

he said — 
And so returns belike within an hour. 
Mark's way, my soul ! — but eat not 

thou with Mark, 53 o 

Because he hates thee even more than 

fears, 
Nor drink ; and when thou passest any 

wood 
Close vizor, lest an arrow from the 

bush 
Should leave me all alone with Mark 

and hell. 
My God, the measure of my hate for 

Mark 
Is as the measure of my love for thee ! ' 

So, pluck'd one way by hate and 

one by love, 
Drain'd of her force, again she sat, 

and spake 
To Tristram, as he knelt before her, 

saying : 
' O hunter, and O blower of the horn, 
Harper, and thou hast been a rover 

tOO, 541 

For, ere I mated with my shambling 

king, 
Ye twain had fallen out about the 

bride 
Of one — his name is out of me — the 

prize, 
If prize she were — what marvel ? — 

she could see — 
Thine, friend ; and ever since my 

craven seeks 
To wreck thee villainously — but, O 

Sir Knight, 
What dame or damsel have ye kneel'd 

to last ? ' 

And Tristram, 'Last to my Queen 

Paramount, 
Here now to my queen paramount of 

love 550 

And loveliness — ay, lovelier than 

when first 
Her light feet fell on our rough Lyon- 

nesse, 
Sailing from Ireland.' 

Softly laugh'd Isolt : 
1 Flatter me not, for hath not our great 
Queen 



55<> 



IDYLLS OF THE KING 



My dole of beauty trebled ? ' and he 

said : 
' Her beauty is her beauty, and thine 

thine, 
And thine is more to me — soft, gra- 
cious, kind — 
Save when thy Mark is kindled on thy 

lips 
Most gracious ; but she, haughty, even 

to him, 
Lancelot ; for I have seen him wan 

enow 560 

To make one doubt if ever the great 

Queen 
Have yielded him her love/ 

To whom Isolt : 
'Ah, then, false hunter and false 

harper, thou 
Who brakest thro' the scruple of my 

bond, 
Calling me thy white hind, and saying 

to me 
That Guinevere had sinn'd against the 

highest, 
And I — misyoked with such a want 

of man — 
That I could hardly sin against the 

lowest/ 

He answer'd : ' O my soul, be com- 
forted ! 

If this be sweet, to sin in leading- 
strings, 570 

If here be comfort, and if ours be 
sin, 

Crown'd warrant had we for the 
crowning sin 

That made us happy ; but how ye 
greet me — fear 

And fault and doubt — no word of 
that fond tale — 

Thy deep heart-yearnings, thy sweet 
memories 

Of Tristram in that year he was away/ 

And, saddening on the sudden, 
spake Isolt : 
' I had forgotten all in my strong joy 
To see thee — yearnings ? — ay ! for, 

hour by hour, 
Here in the never-ended afternoon, 580 
O, sweeter than all memories of thee, 
Deeper than any yearnings after thee 
Seem'd those far-rolling, westward- 
smiling seas, 



Watch'd from this tower. Isolt of 

Britain dash'd 
Before Isolt of Brittany on the 

strand, 
Would that have chill' d her bride-kiss ? 

Wedded her ? 
Fought in her father's battles? 

wounded there ? 
The King was all fulfill'd with grate- 
fulness, 
And she, my namesake of the hands, 

that heal'd 
Thy hurt and heart with unguent and 

caress — 590 

Well — can I wish her any huger 

wrong 
Than having known thee ? her too 

hast thou left 
To pine and waste in those sweet 

memories. 
O, were I not my Mark's, by whom 

all men 
Are noble, I should hate thee more 

than love/ 

And Tristram, fondling her light 

hands, replied : 
1 Grace, queen, for being loved ; she 

loved me well. 
Did I love her? the name at least I 

loved. 
Isolt ? — I fought his battles, for 

Isolt ! 
The night was dark ; the true star set. 

Isolt ! 600 

The name was ruler of the dark — 

Isolt ? 
Care not for her ! patient, and prayer- 
ful, meek, 
Pale-blooded, she will yield herself to 

God/ 

And Isolt answer'd : ' Yea, and why 

not I ? 
Mine is the larger need, who am not 

meek, 
Pale-blooded, prayerful. Let me tell 

thee now. 
Here one black, mute midsummer 

night I sat, 
Lonely, but musing on thee, wonder- 
ing where, 
Murmuring a light song I had heard 

thee sing, 
And once or twice I spake thy name 

aloud. 610 



THE LAST TOURNAMENT 



55i 



Then flash' d a levin-brand ; and near 

me stood, 
In fuming sulphur blue and green, a 

fiend — 
Mark's way to steal behind one in the 

dark — 
For there was Mark : "He has wedded 

her," he said, 
Not said, but hiss'd it ; then this 

crown of towers 
So shook to such a roar of all the 

sky, 
That here in utter dark I swoon'd 

away, 
And woke again in utter dark, and 

cried, 
" I will flee hence and give myself to 

God" — 
And thou wert lying in thy new 

leman's arms/ 620 

Then Tristram, ever dallying with 

her hand, 
1 May God be with thee, sweet, when 

old and gray, 
And past desire ! ' a saying that an- 

ger'd her. 
1 " May God be with thee, sweet, when 

thou art old, 
And sweet no more to me ! " I need 

Him now. 
For when had Lancelot utter' d aught 

so gross 
Even to the swineherd's malkin in the 

mast ? 
The greater man the greater cour- 
tesy. 
Far other was the Tristram, Arthur's 

knight ! 
But thou thro' ever harrying thy wild 

beasts — 630 

Save that to touch a harp, tilt with a 

lance 
Becomes thee well — art grown wild 

beast thyself. 
How darest thou, if lover, push me 

even 
In fancy from thy side, and set me 

far 
In the gray distance, half a life 

away, 
Her to be loved no more ? Unsay it, 

unswear ! 
Flatter me rather, seeing me so weak, 
Broken with Mark and hate and soli- 
tude, 



Thy marriage and mine own, that I 

should suck 
Lies like sweet wines. Lie to me ; I 

believe. 640 

Will ye not lie ? not swear, as there 

ye kneel, 
And solemnly as when ye sware to him, 
The man of men, our King — My 

God, the power 
Was once in vows when men believed 

the King ! 
They lied not then who sware, and 

thro' their vows 
The King prevailing made his realm 

— I say, 
Swear to me thou wilt love me even 

when old, 
Gray-hair'd, and past desire, and in 

despair/ 

Then Tristram, pacing moodily up 

and down : 
' Vows ! did you keep the vow you 

made to Mark 650 

More than I mine ? Lied, say ye ? 

Nay, but learnt, 
The vow that binds too strictly snaps 

itself — 
My knighthood taught me this — ay, 

being snapt — 
We run more counter to the soul 

thereof 
Than had we never sworn. I swear 

no more. 
I swore to the great King, and am for- 
sworn. 
For once — even to the height — I 

honor' d him, 
1 ' Man, is he man at all ? " methought, 

when first 
I rode from our rough Lyonnesse, and 

beheld 
That victor of the Pagan throned in 

hall — 660 

His hair, a sun that ray'd from off a 

brow 
Like hill-snow high in heaven, the 

steel-blue eyes, 
The golden beard' that clothed his lips 

with light — 
Moreover, that weird legend of his 

birth, 
With Merlin's mystic babble about his 

end 
Amazed me ; then, his foot was on a 

stool 



552 



IDYLLS OF THE KING 



Shaped as a dragon ; he seem'd to me 

no man, 
But Michael trampling Satan ; so I 

sware, 
Being amazed. But this went by — 

The vows ! 
O, ay — the wholesome madness of an 

hour — 670 

They served their use, their time ; for 

every knight 
Believed himself a greater than him- 
self, 
And every follower eyed him as a 

God; 
Till he, being lifted up beyond him- 
self, 
Did mightier deeds than elsewise he 

had done, 
And so the realm was made. But then 

their vows — 
First mainly thro' that sullying of our 

Queen — 
Began to gall the knighthood, asking 

whence 
Had Arthur right to bind them to 

himself ? 
Dropt down from heaven ? wash'd 

up from out the deep ? 680 

They fail'd to trace him thro' the flesh 

and blood 
Of our old kings. Whence then ? a 

doubtful lord 
To bind them by inviolable vows, 
With flesh and blood perforce would 

violate ; 
For feel this arm of mine — the tide 

within 
Red with free chase and heather- 
scented air, 
Pulsing full man. Can Arthur make 

me pure 
As any maiden child? lock up my 

tongue 
From uttering freely what I freely 

hear ? 
Bind me to one? The wide world 

laughs at it. 690 

And worldling of the world am I, and 

know 
The ptarmigan that whitens ere his 

hour 
Woos his own end ; we are not angels 

here 
Nor shall be. Vows — I am wood- 
man of the woods, 
And hear the garnet-headed yaffingale 



Mock them — my soul, we love but 

while we may ; 
And therefore is my love so large for 

thee, 
Seeing it is not bounded save by love.' 

Here ending, he moved toward her, 

and she said: 
1 Good ; an I turn'd away my love for 

thee 700 

To some one thrice as courteous as 

thyself — 
For courtesy wins woman all as 

well 
As valor may, but he that closes 

both 
Is perfect, he is Lancelot — taller in- 
deed, 
Rosier and comelier, thou — but say I 

loved 
This knightliest of all knights, and 

cast thee back 
Thine own small saw, ' ' We love but 

while we may," 
Well then, what answer ? ' 

He that while she spake, 
Mindful of what he brought to adorn 

her with, 
The jewels, had let one finger lightly 

touch 710 

The warm white apple of her throat, 

replied, 
'Press this a little closer, sweet, un- 
til— 
Come, I am hunger'd and half-anger'd 

— meat, 
Wine, wine — and I will love thee to 

the death, 
And out beyond into the dream to 

come.' 



So then, when both were brought 

to full accord, 
She rose, and set before him all he 

will'd ; 
And after these had comforted the 

blood 
With meats and wines, and satiated 

their hearts — 
Now talking of their woodland para- 

dise, 7 20 

The deer, the dews, the fern, the 

founts, the lawns ; 
Now mocking at the much ungainli- 

ness, 



GUINEVERE 



553 



And craven shifts, and long crane legs 

of Mark — 
Then Tristram laughing caught the 

harp and sang : 

* Ay, ay, O, ay — the winds that bend 

the brier! 
A star in heaven, a star within the mere ! 
Ay, ay, O, ay — a star was my desire, 
And one was far apart and one was near. 
Ay, ay, O, ay — the winds that bow the 

grass ! 729 

And one was water and one star was fire, 
And one will ever shine and one will pass. 
Ay, ay, O, ay — the winds that move the 

mere ! ' 

Then in the light's last glimmer 

Tristram show'd 
And swung the ruby carcanet. She 

cried, 
1 The collar of some Order, which our 

King 
Hath newly founded, all for thee, my 

soul, 
For thee, to yield thee grace beyond 

thy peers/ 

'Not so, my queen,' he said, 'but 
the red fruit 

Grown on a magic oak-tree in mid- 
heaven, 

And won by Tristram as a tourney- 
prize, 740 

And hither brought by Tristram for 
his last 

Love-offering and peace-offering unto 
thee.' 

He spoke, he turn'd, then, flinging 

round her neck, 
Claspt it, and cried, ' Thine Order, O 

my queen ! ' 
But, while he bow'd to kiss the 

jewell'd throat, 
Out of the dark, just as the lips had 

touch' d, 
Behind him rose a shadow and a 

shriek — 
'Mark's way,' said Mark, and clove 

him thro' the brain. 

That night came Arthur home, and 

while he climb'd, 
All in a death-dumb autumn-dripping 

gloom, 750 

The stairway to the hall, and look'd 

and saw 



The great Queen's bower was dark, — 
about his feet 

A voice clung sobbing till he ques- 
tioned it, 

' What art thou ? ' and the voice about 
his feet 

Sent up an answer, sobbing, 'I am 
thy fool, 

And I shall never make thee smile 
again. ' 



GUINEVERE 

Queen Guinevere had fled the court, 

and sat 
There in the holy house at Almesbury 
Weeping, none with her save a little 

maid, 
A novice. One low light betwixt them 

burn'd 
Blurr'd by the creeping mist, for all 

abroad, 
Beneath a moon unseen albeit at full, 
The white mist, like a face-cloth to 

the face, 
Clung to the dead earth, and the land 

was still. 

For hither had she fled, her cause of 

flight 
Sir Modred; he that like a subtle 

beast 10 

Lay couchant with his eyes upon the 

throne, 
Ready to spring, waiting a chance. 

For this 
He chill'd the popular praises of the 

King 
With silent smiles of slow disparage- 
ment ; 
And tamper' d with the Lords of the 

White Horse, 
Heathen, the brood by Hengist left; 

and sought 
To make disruption in the Table Round 
Of Arthur, and to splinter it into feuds 
Serving his traitorous end ; and all his 

aims 
Were sharpen'd by strong hate for 

Lancelot. 20 

For thus it chanced one morn when 
all the court, 
Green-suited, but with plumes that 
mock'd the may, 



554 



IDYLLS OF THE KING 



Had been — their wont — a-maying 

and return'd, 
That Modred still in green, all ear and 

eye, 
Climb' d to the high top of the garden- 
wall 
To spy some secret scandal if he might, 
And saw the Queen who sat betwixt 

her best 
Enid and lissome Vivien, of her court 
The wiliest and the worst ; and more 

than this 
He saw not, for Sir Lancelot passing 

by 30 

Spied where he couch'd, and as the 

gardener's hand 
Picks from the colewort a green cater- 
pillar, 
So from the high wall and the flower- 
ing grove 
Of grasses Lancelot pluck' d him by 

the heel, 
And cast him as a worm upon the way ; 
But when he knew the prince tho' 

marr'd with dust, 
He, reverencing king's blood in a bad 

man, 
Made such excuses as he might, and 

these 
Full knightly without scorn. For in 

those days 
No knight of Arthur's noblest dealt in 

scorn ; 40 

But, if a man were halt, or hunch'd, 

in him 
By .those whom God had made full- 

limb'd and tall, 
Scorn was allow'd as part of his defect, 
And he was answer'd softly by the 

King 
And all his Table. So Sir Lancelot holp 
To raise the prince, who rising twice 

or thrice 
Full sharply smote his knees, and 

smiled, and went ; 
But, ever after, the small violence done 
Rankled in him and ruffled all his 

heart, 
As the sharp wind that ruffles all day 

long 50 

A little bitter pool about a stone 
On the bare coast. 

But when Sir Lancelot told 
This matter to the Queen, at first she 
laugh'd 



Lightly, to think of Modred' s dusty 

fall, 
Then shudder'd, as the village wife 

who cries, 
' 1 shudder, some one steps across my 

grave ; ' 
Then laugh'd again, but faintlier, for 

indeed 
She half -foresaw that he, the subtle 

beast, 
Would track her guilt until he found, 

and hers 
Would be for evermore a name of scorn. 
Henceforward rarely could she front 

in hall, 61 

Or elsewhere, Modred's narrow foxy 

face, 
Heart-hiding smile, and gray persis- 
tent eye. 
Henceforward too, the Powers that 

tend the soul, 
To help it from the death that cannot 

die, 
And save it even in extremes, began 
To vex and plague her. Many a time 

for hours, 
Beside the placid breathings of the 

King, 
In the dead night, grim faces came 

and went 
Before her, or a vague spiritual fear — 
Like to some doubtful noise of creak- 
ing doors, 71 
Heard by the watcher in a haunted 

house, 
That keeps the rust of murder on the 

walls — 
Held her awake ; or if she slept she 

dream' d 
An awful dream, for then she seem'd 

to stand 
On some vast plain before a setting sun, 
And from the sun there swiftly made 

at her 
A ghastly something, and its shadow 

flew 
Before it till it touch'd her, and she 

turn'd — 
When lo! her own, that broadening 

from her feet, 80 

And blackening, swallow'd all the 

land, and in it 
Far cities burnt, and with a cry she 

woke. 
And all this trouble did not pass but 

grew, 



GUINEVERE 



555 



Till even the clear face of the guile- 
less King, 

And trustful courtesies of household 
life, 

Became her bane ; and at the last she 
said : 

'O Lancelot, get thee hence to thine 
own land, 

For if thou tarry we shall meet again, 

And if we meet again some evil chance 

Will make the smouldering scandal 
break and blaze 90 



Before the people and our lord the 
King.' 

And Lancelot ever promised, but re- 
main' d, 

And still they met and met. Again 
she said, 

' O Lancelot, if thou love me get thee 
hence/ 

And then they mere agreed upon a 
night — 

When the good King should not be 
there — to meet 




' They rode to the divided way, 
There kiss'd, and parted weeping ' 



556 



IDYLLS OF THE KING 



And part for ever. Yivien, lurking, 

heard. 
She told Sir Modred. Passion-pale 

they met 
And greeted. Hands in hands, and 

eye to eye, 
Low on the border of her couch they 

sat ioo 

Stammering and staging. It was their 

last hour, 
A madness of farewells. And Modred 

brought 
His creatures to the basement of the 

tower 
For testimony ; and crying with full 

voice, 
'Traitor, come out, ye are trapt at 

last/ aroused 
Lancelot, who rushing outward lion- 
like 
Leapt on him, and hurl'd him head- 
long, and he fell 
Stunn'd, and his creatures took and 

bare him off. 
And all was still. Then she, ' The end 

is come, 
And I am shamed for ever ; ' and he 

said: no 

'Mine be the shame, mine was the 

sin ; but rise, 
And fly to my strong castle over-seas. 
There will I hide thee till my life shall 

end, 
There hold thee with my life against 

the world.' 
She answer'd : ' Lancelot, wilt thou 

hold me so ? 
Nay, friend, for we have taken our 

farewells. 
Would God that thou couldst hide me 

from myself ! 
Mine is the shame, for I was wife, 

and thou 
Unwedded ; yet rise now, and let us fly, 
For I will draw me into sanctuary, 120 
And bide my doom.' So Lancelot got 

her horse, 
Set her thereon, and mounted on his 

own, 
And then they rode to the divided way, 
There kiss'd, and parted weeping ; for 

he past, 
Love-loyal to the least wish of the 

Queen, 
Back to his land ; but she to Almes- 

bury 



Fled all night long by glimmering 

waste and weald, 
And heard the spirits of the waste 

and weald 
Moan as she fled, or thought she heard 

them moan. 
And in herself she moan'd, ' Too late, 

too late ! ' 130 

Till in the cold wind that foreruns the 

morn, 
A blot in heaven, the raven, flying 

high, 
Croak'd, and she thought, 'He spies 

a field of death ; 
For now the heathen of the Northern 

Sea, 
Lured by the crimes and frailties of 

the court, 
Begin to slay the folk and spoil the 

land.' 

And when she came to Almesbury 

she spake 
There to the nuns, and said, 'Mine 

enemies 
Pursue me, but, O peaceful Sister- 
hood, 
Receive and yield me sanctuary, nor 

ask 140 

Her name to whom ye yield it till her 

time 
To tell you;' and her beauty, grace, 

and power 
Wrought as a charm upon them, and 

they spared 
To ask it. 

So the stately Queen abode 
For many a week, unknown, among 

the nuns, 
Nor with them mix'd, nor told her 

name, nor sought, 
Wrapt in her grief, for housel or for 

shrift, 
But communed only with the little 

maid, 
Who pleased her with a babbling 

heedlessness 
Which often lured her from herself; 

but now, 150 

This night, a rumor wildly blown 

about 
Came that Sir Modred had usurp'd 

the realm 
And leagued him with the heathen, 

while the King 




GUINEVERE 



557 



Was waging war on Lancelot. Then 
she thought, 

* With what a hate the people and the 

King 
Must hate me,' and bow'd down upon 

her hands 
Silent, until the little maid, who 

brook' d 
No silence, brake it, uttering ' Late ! 

so late ! 
What hour, I wonder now?' and 

when she drew 
No answer, by and by began to hum 
An air the nuns had taught her: 

' Late, so late ! ' 161 

Which when she heard, the Queen 

look'd up, and said, 

* O maiden, if indeed ye list to sing, 
Sing, and unbind my heart that I 

may weep.' 
Whereat full willingly sang the little 
maid. 

'Late, late, so late! and dark the night 
and chill ! 
Late, late, so late! but we can enter still. 
Too late, too late ! ye cannot enter now. 

' No light had we ; for that we do repent, 
And learning this, the bridegroom will re- 
lent. i 7 o 
Too late, too late ! ye cannot enter now. 

'No light! so late! and dark and chill 
the night! 
0, let us in, that we may find the light ! 
Too late, too late ! ye cannot enter now. 

1 Have we not heard the bridegroom is so 
sweet ? 
O, let us in, tho' late, to kiss his feet! 
No, no, too late ! ye cannot enter now.' 

So sang the novice, while full pas- 
sionately, 

Her head upon her hands, remember- 
ing 

Her thought when first she came, 
wept the sad Queen. 180 

Then said the little novice prattling 
to her : 

1 pray you, noble lady, weep no 

more; 
But let my words — the words of one 

so small, 
Who knowing nothing knows but to 

obey, 



And if I do not there is penance 

given — 
Comfort your sorrows, for they do 

not flow 
From evil done; right sure am I of 

that, 
Who see your tender grace and state- 

liness. 
But weigh your sorrows with our lord 

the King's, 
And weighing find them less ; for gone 

is he i 9 o 

To wage grim war against Sir Lance- 
lot there, 
Round that strong castle where he 

holds the Queen ; 
And Modred whom he left in charge 

of all, 
The traitor — Ah, sweet lady, the 

King's grief 
For his own self, and his own Queen, 

and realm, 
Must needs be thrice as great as any 

of ours ! 
For me, I thank the saints, I am not 

great ; 
For if there ever come a grief to me 
I cry my cry in silence, and have 

done ; 
None knows it, and my tears have 

brought me good. 200 

But even were the griefs of little 

ones 
As great as those of great ones, yet 

this grief 
Is added to the griefs the great must 

bear, 
That, howsoever much they may de- 
sire 
Silence, they cannot weep behind a 

cloud ; 
As even here they talk at Almesbury 
About the good King and his wicked 

Queen, 
And were I such a King with such a 

Queen, 
Well might I wish to veil her wicked- 
ness, 
But were I such a King it could not 

be.' 210 

Then to her own sad heart mutter'd 
the Queen, 

1 Will the child kill me with her inno- 
cent talk ? ' 

But openly she answer'd, ' Must not I, 



558 



IDYLLS OF THE KING 



If this false traitor have displaced his 

lord, 
Grieve with the common grief of all 

the realm ? ' 

'Yea,' said the maid, 'this all is 

woman's grief, 
That she is woman, whose disloyal life 
Hath wrought confusion in the Table 

Round 
Which good King Arthur founded, 

years ago, 
With signs and miracles and wonders, 

there 220 

At Camelot, ere the coming of the 

Queen.' 

Then thought the Queen within her- 
self again, 

' Will the child kill me with her foolish 
prate ? ' 

But openly she spake and said to her, 

'O little maid, shut in by nunnery 
walls, 

What canst thou know of Kings and 
Tables Round, 

Or what of signs and wonders, but the 
signs 

And simple miracles of thy nunnery ? ' 

To whom the little novice garru- 
lously : 

' Yea, but I know ; the land was full 
of signs 230 

And wonders ere the coming of the 
Queen. 

So said my father, and himself was 
knight 

Of the great Table — at the founding 
of it, 

And rode thereto from Lyonnesse ; 
and he said 

That as he rode, an hour or maybe 
twain 

After the sunset, down the coast, he 
heard 

Strange music, and he paused, and 
turning — there, 

All down the lonely coast of Lyon- 
nesse, 

Each with a beacon-star upon his head, 

And with a wild sea-light about his 
feet, 240 

He saw them — headland after head- 
land flame 

Far on into the rich heart of the west. 



And in the light the white mermaiden 

swam, 
And strong man-breasted things stood 

from the sea, 
And sent a deep sea-voice thro' all the 

land, 
To which the little elves of chasm and 

cleft 
Made answer, sounding like a distant 

horn. 
So said my father — yea, and further- 
more, 
Next morning, while he past the dim- 
lit woods 
Himself beheld three spirits mad with 

joy 250 

Come dashing down on a tall wayside 

flower, 
That shook beneath them as the thistle 

shakes 
When three gray linnets wrangle for 

the seed. 
And still at evenings on before his 

horse 
The flickering fairy-circle wheel'd and 

broke 
Flying, and link'd again, and wheel'd 

and broke 
Flying, for all the land was full of 

life. 
And when at last he came to Camelot, 
A wreath of airy dancers hand-in-hand 
Swung round the lighted lantern of 

the hall ; 260 

And in the hall itself was such a feast 
As never man had dream'd ; for every 

knight 
Had whatsoever meat he long'd for 

served 
By hands unseen ; and even as he said 
Down in the cellars merry bloated 

things 
Shoulder'd the spigot, straddling on 

the butts 
While the wine ran ; so glad were 

spirits and men 
Before the coming of the sinful Queen.' 

Then spake the Queen and some- 
what bitterly, 

' Were they so glad ? ill prophets were 
they all, 270 

Spirits and men. Could none of them 
foresee, 

Not even thy wise father with his 
signs 



GUINEVERE 



559 



And wonders, what has fallen upon the 
realm ? ' 

To whom the novice garrulously 

again: 
' Yea, one, a bard, of whom my father 

said, 
Full many a noble war- song had he 

sung, 
Even in the presence of an enemy's 

fleet, 
Between the steep cliff and the coming 

wave ; 
And many a mystic lay of life and 

death 
Had chanted on the smoky mountain- 
tops, 280 
When round him bent the spirits of 

the hills 
With all their dewy hair blown back- 
like flame. 
So said my father — and that night the 

bard 
Sang Arthur's glorious wars, and sang 

the King 
As wellnigh more than man, and rail'd 

at those 
Who call'd him the false son of Gor- 

loi's. 
For there was no man knew from 

whence he came ; 
But after tempest, when the long 

wave broke 
All down the thundering shores of 

Bude and Bos, 
There came a day as still as heaven, 

and then 290 

They found a naked child upon the 

sands 
Of dark Tintagil by the Cornish sea, 
And that was Arthur, and they foster' d 

him 
Till he by miracle was approven King ; 
And that his grave should be a mystery 
From all men, like his birth; and 

could he find 
A woman in her womanhood as great 
As he was in his manhood, then, he 



The twain together well might change 

the world. 
But even in the middle of his song 300 
He falter'd, and his hand fell from the 

harp, 
And pale he turn'd, and reel'd, and 

would have fallen, 



But that they stay'd him up ; nor would 

tell 
His vision ; but what doubt that he 

foresaw 
This evil work of Lancelot and the 

Queen ? ' 

Then thought the Queen, ' Lo ! they 
have set her on, 

Our simple-seeming abbess and her 
nuns, 

To play upon me,' and bow'd her head 
nor spake. 

Whereat the novice crying, with 
clasp'd hands, 

Shame on her own garrulity garru- 
lously, 310 

Said the good nuns would check her 
gadding tongue 

Full often, * and, sweet lady, if I seem 

To vex an ear too sad to listen to me, 

Unmannerly, with prattling and the 
tales 

Which my good father told me, check 
me too 

Nor let me shame my father's mem- 
ory, one 

Of noblest manners, tho' himself would 
say 

Sir Lancelot had the noblest ; and he 
died, 

Kill'd in a tilt, come next, five sum- 
mers back, 

And left me ; but of others who re- 
main, 320 

And of the two first-famed for cour- 
tesy— 

And pray you check me if I ask 
amiss — 

But pray you, which had noblest, 
while you moved 

Among them, Lancelot or our lord the 
King ? ' 

Then the pale Queen look'd up and 

answer'd her : 
1 Sir Lancelot, as became a noble 

• knight, 
Was gracious to all ladies, and the 

same 
In open battle or the tilting-field 
Forbore his own advantage, and the 

King 
In open battle or the tilting-field 330 
Forbore his own advantage, and these 

two 



5 6 ° 



IDYLLS OF THE KING 



Were the most nobly -manner d men of 

all; 
For manners are not idle, but the 

fruit 
Of loyal nature and of noble mind.' 

'Yea/ said the maid, 'be manners 
such fair fruit ? 
Then Lancelot's needs must be a thou- 
sand-fold 
Less noble, being, as all rumor runs, 
The most disloyal friend in all the 
world.' 

To which a mournful answer made 
the Queen : 

1 O, closed about by narrowing nun- 
nery-walls, 340 

What knowest thou of the world and 
all its lights 

And shadows, all the wealth and all 
the woe ? 

If ever Lancelot, that most noble 
knight, 

Were for one hour less noble than him- 
self, 

Pray for him that he scape the doom 
of fire, 

And weep for her who drew him to 
his doom.' 

'Yea,' said the little novice, ' I pray 

for both ; 
But I should all as soon believe that 

his, 
Sir Lancelot's, were as noble as the 

King's, 
As I could think, sweet lady, yours 

would be 350 

Such as they are, were you the sinful 

Queen.' 

So she, like many another babbler, 

hurt 
Whom she would soothe, and harm'd 

where she would heal ; 
For here a sudden flush of wrathful 

heat 
Fired all the pale face of the Queen, 

who cried : 
1 Such as thou art be never maiden 

more 
For ever ! thou their tool, set on to 

plague 
And play upon and harry me, petty 

spy 



And traitress ! ' When that storm of 

anger brake 
From Guinevere, aghast the maiden 

rose, 360 

White as her veil, and stood before 

the Queen 
As tremulously as foam upon the 

beach 
Stands in a wind, ready to break and 

fly, 

And when the Queen had added, ' Get 
thee hence ! ' 

Fled frighted. Then that other left 
alone 

Sigh'd, and began to gather heart 
again, 

Saying in herself : ' The simple, fear- 
ful child 

Meant nothing, but my own too-fear- 
ful guilt, 

Simpler than any child, betrays it- 
self. 

But help me, Heaven, for surely I re- 
pent ! 37 o 

For what is true repentance but in 
thought — 

Not even in inmost thought to think 
again 

The sins that made the past so plea- 
sant to us ? 

And I have sworn never to see him 
more, 

To see him more.' 

And even in saying this, 

Her memory from old habit of the 
mind 

Went slipping back upon the golden 
days 

In which she saw him first, when Lan- 
celot came, 

Reputed the best knight and goodliest 
man, 

Ambassador, to yield her to his lord 

Arthur, and led her forth, and far 
ahead 38 l 

Of his and her retinue moving, they, 

Rapt in sweet talk or lively, all on 
love 

And sport and tilts and pleasure, — 
for the time 

Was may-time, and as yet no sin was 
dream' d, — 

Rode under groves that look'd a para- 
dise 

Of blossom, over sheets of hyacinth 



GUINEVERE 



56i 



That seem'd the heavens upbreaking 

thro' the earth, 
And on from hill to hill, and every- 
day 
Beheld at noon in some delicious 

dale 390 

The silk pavilions of King Arthur 

raised 
For brief repast or afternoon repose 
By couriers gone before ; and on 
A again, 

* Till yet once more ere set of sun they 

saw 
The Dragon of the great Pendragon- 

ship, 
That crown' d the state pavilion of the 

King, 
Blaze by the rushing brook or silent 

well. 

But when the Queen immersed in 

such a trance, 
And moving thro' the past uncon- 
sciously, 
Came to that point where first she saw 

the King 400 

Ride toward her from the city, sigh'd 

to find 
Her journey done, glanced at him, 

thought him cold, 
High, self-contain'd, and passionless, 

not like him, 
' Not like my Lancelot ' — while she 

brooded thus 
And grew half-guilty in her thoughts 

again, 
There rode an armed warrior to the 

doors. 
A murmuring whisper thro' the nun- 
nery ran, 
Then on a sudden a cry, * The King ! ' 

She sat 
Stiff-stricken, listening ; but when 

armed feet 
Thro' the long gallery from the outer 

doors 410 

Rang coming, prone from off her seat 

she fell, 
And grovel I'd with her face against 

the floor. 
There with her milk-white arms and 

shadowy hair 
She made her face a darkness from 

the King, 
And in the darkness heard his armed 

feet 



Pause by her ; then came silence, then 

a voice, 
Monotonous and hollow like a ghost's 
Denouncing judgment, but, tho' 

changed, the King's : 

1 Liest thou here so low, the child of 

one 
I honor' d, happy, dead before thy 

shame ? 42 o 

Well is it that no child is born of thee. 
The children born of thee are sword 

and fire, 
Red ruin, and the breaking up of laws, 
The craft of kindred and the godless 

hosts 
Of heathen swarming o'er the North- 
ern Sea ; 
Whom I, while yet Sir Lancelot, my 

right arm, 
The mightiest of my knights, abode 

with me, 
Have everywhere about this land of 

Christ 
In twelve great battles ruining over- 
thrown. 
And knowest thou now from whence 

I come — from him, 430 

From waging bitter war with him ; 

and he, 
That did not shun to smite me in 

worse way, 
Had yet that grace of courtesy in him 

left, 
He spared to lift his hand against the 

King 
Who made him knight. But many a 

knight was slain ; 
And many more and all his kith and 

kin 
Clave to him, and abode in his own 

land. 
And many more when Modred raised 

revolt, 
Forgetful of their troth and fealty, 

clave 
To Modred, and a remnant stays with 

me. 440 

And of this remnant will I leave a 

part, 
True men who love me still, for whom 

I live. 
To guard thee in the wild hour com- 
ing on, 
Lest but a hair of this low head be 

harm'd. 



S 62 



IDYLLS OF THE KING 



Fear not ; thou shalt be guarded till 

my death. 
Howbeit I know, if ancient prophecies 
Have err'd not, that I march to meet 

my doom. 
Thou hast not made my life so sweet 

to me, 
That I the King should greatly care to 

live ; 
For thou hast spoilt the purpose of 

my life. 450 

Bear with me for the last time while 

I show, 
Even for thy sake, the sin which thou 

hast sinn'd. 
For when the Roman left us, and 

their law 
Relax'd its hold upon us, and the 

ways 
Were fill'd with rapine, here and 

there a deed 
Of prowess done redress'd a random 

wrong. 
But I was first of all the kings who 

drew 
The knighthood-errant of this realm 

and all 
The realms together under me. their 

Head, 
In that fair Order of my Table Round, 
A glorious company, the flower of 

men, 461 

To serve as model for the mighty 

world, 
And be the fair beginning of a time. 
I made them lay their hands in mine 

and swear 
To reverence the King, as if he were 
Their conscience, and their conscience 

as their King, 
To break the heathen and uphold the 

Christ, 
To ride abroad redressing human 

wrongs, 
To speak no slander, no, nor listen to 

it, 469 

To honor his own word as if his God's, 
To lead sweet lives in purest chastity, 
To love one maiden only, cleave to her, 
And worship her by years of noble 

deeds, 
Until they won her; for indeed I 

knew 
Of no more subtle master under hea- 
ven 
Than is the maiden passion for a maid, 



Not only to keep down the base in 

man, 
But teach high thought, and amiable 

words 
And courtliness, and the desire of 

fame, 
And love of truth, and all that makes 

a man. 480 

And all this throve before I wedded 

thee, 
Believing, " Lo, mine helpmate, one 

to feel 
My purpose and rejoicing in my 

joy ! " 
Then came thy shameful sin with 

Lancelot ; 
Then came the sin of Tristram and 

Isolt ; 
Then others, following these my 

mightiest knights, 
And drawing foul ensample from fair 

names, 
Sinn'd also, till the loathsome oppo- 
site 
Of all my heart had destined did ob- 
tain, 
And all thro' thee ! so that this life of 

mine 490 

I guard as God's high gift from scathe 

and wrong, 
Not greatly care to lose ; but rather 

think 
How sad it were for Arthur, should 

he live, 
To sit once more within his lonely 

hall, 
And miss the wonted number of my 

knights, 
And miss to hear high talk of noble 

deeds 
As in the golden days before thy sin. 
For which of us who might be left 

could speak 
Of the pure heart, nor seem to glance 

at thee ? 
And in thy bowers of Camelot or of 

Usk 500 

Thy shadow still would glide from 

room to room, 
And I should evermore be vext with 

thee 
In hanging robe or vacant ornament, 
Or ghostly footfall echoing on the 

stair. 
For think not, tho' thou wouldst not 

love thy lord, 



GUINEVERE 



563 




' He paused, and in the pause she crept an inch 
Nearer, and laid her hands about his feet ' 



Thy lord has wholly lost his love for 

thee. 
I am not made of so slight elements. 
Yet must I leave thee, woman, to thy 

shame. 
I hold that man the worst of public 

foes 
Who either for his own or children's 

sake, 510 

To save his blood from scandal, lets 

the wife 



Whom he knows false abide and rule 

the house : 
For being thro' his cowardice allow'd 
Her station, taken everywhere for 

pure, 
She like a new disease, unknown to 

men, 
Creeps, no precaution used, among 

the crowd, 
Makes wicked lightnings of her eyes, 

and saps 



5 6 4 



IDYLLS OF THE KING 



The fealty of our friends, and stirs the 

pulse 
With devil's leaps, and poisons half 

the young. 
Worst of the worst were that man he 

that reigns ! 520 

Better the King's waste hearth and 

aching heart 
Than thou reseated in thy place of 

light, 
The mockery of my people and their 

bane ! ' 

He paused, and in the pause she 
crept an inch 

Nearer, and laid her hands about his 
feet. 

Far off a solitary trumpet blew. 

Then waiting by the doors the war- 
horse neigh' d 

As at a friend's voice, and he spake 
again : 

' Yet think not that I come to urge 

thy crimes ; 
I did not come to curse thee, Guine- 
vere, 530 
I, whose vast pity almost makes me 

die 
To see thee, laying there thy golden 

head, 
My pride in happier summers, at my 

feet. 
The wrath which forced my thoughts 

on that fierce law, 
The doom of treason and the flaming 

death, — •, 
When first I learnt thee hidden here, 

— is past. 
The pang — which, while I weigh'd 

thy heart with one 
Too wholly true to dream untruth in 

thee, 
Made my tears burn — is also past — 

in part. 
And all is past, the sin is sinn'd, and 

I, 540 

Lo, I forgive thee, as Eternal God 
Forgives ! do thou for thine own soul 

the rest. 
But how to take last leave of all I 

loved ? 
O golden hair, with which I used to 

play 
Not knowing ! O imperial-moulded 

form, 



And beauty such as never woman 

wore, 
Until it came a kingdom's curse with 

thee — 
I cannot touch thy lips, they are not 

mine, 
But Lancelot's ; najr, they never were 

the King's. 
I cannot take thy hand ; that too is 

flesh, 550 

And in the flesh thou hast sinn'd ; and 

mine own flesh, 
Here looking down on thine polluted, 

cries, 
"I loathe thee;" yet not less, O 

Guinevere, 
For I was ever virgin save for thee, 
My love thro' flesh hath wrought into 

my life 
So far that my doom is, I love thee still. 
Let no man dream but that I love thee 

still. 
Perchance, and so thou purify thy 

soul, 
And so thou lean on our fair father 

Christ, 
Hereafter in that world where all are 

pure 560 

We two may meet before high God, 

and thou 
Wilt spring to me, and claim me 

thine, and know 
I am thine husband — not a smaller 

soul, 
Nor Lancelot, nor another. Leave me 

that, 
I charge thee, my last hope. Now must 

I hence. 
Thro' the thick night I hear the trum- 
pet blow. 
They summon me their King to lead 

mine hosts 
Far down to that great battle in the 

west, 
Where I must strike against the man 

they call 
My sister's son — no kin of mine, who 

leagues 570 

With Lords of the White Horse, hea- 
then, and knights, 
Traitors — and strike him dead, and 

meet myself 
Death, or I know not what mysterious 

doom. 
And thou remaining here wilt learn 

the event ; 



GUINEVERE 



565 



But hither shall I never come again, 
Never lie by thy side, see thee no 

more — 
Farewell ! ' 

And while she grovell'd at his feet, 
She felt the King's breath wander o'er 

her neck, 
And in the darkness o'er her fallen 

head 
Perceived the waving of his hands 

that blest. 580 

Then, listening till those armed 

steps were gone, 
Rose the pale Queen, and in her an- 
guish found 
The casement : ' perad venture,' so she 

thought, 
' If I might see his face, and not be 

seen/ 
And lo, he sat on horseback at the 

door ! 
And near him the sad nuns with each 

a light * 

Stood, and he gave them charge about 

the Queen, 
To guard and foster her for evermore. 
And while he spake to these his helm 

was lower'd, 
To which for crest the golden dragon 

clung 590 

Of Britain ; so she did not see the face, 
Which then was as an angel's, but she 

saw, 
Wet with the mists and smitten by the 

lights, 
The Dragon of the great Pendragon- 

ship 
Blaze, making all the night a steam of 

fire. 
And even then he turn'd; and more 

and more 
The moony vapor rolling round the 

King, 
Who seem'd the phantom of a giant 

in it, 
Enwound him fold by fold, and made 

him gray 
And grayer, till himself became as 

mist 600 

Before her, moving ghostlike to his 

doom. 

Then she stretch'd out her arms and 
cried aloud, 



* O Arthur ! ' there her voice brake 

suddenly, 
Then — as a stream that spouting from 

a cliff 
Fails in mid air, but gathering at the 

base 
Re-makes itself, and flashes down the 

vale — 
Went on in passionate utterance : 

' Gone — my lord ! 
Gone thro' my sin to slay and to be 

slain ! 
And he forgave me, and I could not 

speak. 
Farewell ? I should have answer'd 

his farewell. 610 

His mercy choked me. Gone, my 

lord the King, 
My own true lord ! how dare I call 

him mine ? 
The shadow of another cleaves to me, 
And makes me one pollution. He, 

the King, 
Call'd me polluted. Shall I kill my- 
self? 
What help in that ? I cannot kill my 

sin, 
If soul be soul, nor can I kill my 

shame ; 
No, nor by living can I live it down. 
The days will grow to weeks, the 

weeks to months, 
The months will add themselves and 

make the years, 620 

The years will roll into the centuries, 
And mine will ever be a name of 

scorn. 
I must not dwell on that defeat of 

fame. 
Let the world be ; that is but of the 

world — 
What else ? what hope ? I think there 

was a hope, 
Except he mock'd me when he spake 

of hope ; 
His hope he call'd it ; but he never 

mocks, 
For mockery is the fume of little 

hearts. 
And blessed be the King, who hath 

forgiven 
My wickedness to him, and left me 

hope 6 3o 

That in mine own heart I can live 

down sin 



5 66 



IDYLLS OF THE KING 



And be his mate hereafter in the hea- 
vens 
Before high God ! Ah great and 

gentle lord, 
Who wast, as is the conscience of a 

saint 
Among his warring senses, to thy 

knights — 
To whom my false voluptuous pride, 

that took 
Full easily all impressions from below, 
Would not look up, or half-despised 

the height 
To which I would not or I could not 

climb — 
I thought I could not breathe in that 

fine air, 640 

That pure severity of perfect light — 
I yearn' d for warmth and color which 

I found 
In Lancelot — now I see thee what 

thou art, 
Thou art the highest and most human 

too, 
Not Lancelot, nor another. Is there 

none 
Will tell the King I love him tho' so 

late? 
Now — ere he goes to the great battle ? 

none ! 
Myself must tell him in that purer life, 
But now it were too daring. Ah my 

God, 
What might I not have made of thy 

fair world, 650 

Had I but loved thy highest creature 

here? 
It was my duty to have loved the 

highest ; 
It surely was my profit had I known ; 
It would have been my pleasure had 

I seen. 
We needs must love the highest when 

we see it, 
Not Lancelot, nor another/ 

Here her hand 
Grasp'd made her vail her eyes. She 

look'd and saw 
The novice, weeping, suppliant, and 

said to her, 
'Yea, little maid, for am I not for- 
given ? ' 
Then glancing up beheld the holy nuns 
All round her, weeping ; and her 
heart was loosed 661 



Within her, and she wept with these 
and said : 

' Ye know me then, that wicked 

one, who broke 
The vast design and purpose of the 

King. 
O, shut me round with narrowing 

nunnery- walls, 
Meek maidens, from the voices crying, 

"Shame !" 
I must not scorn myself ; he loves me 

still. 
Let no one dream but that he loves 

me still. 
So let me, if you do not shudder at 

me, 
Nor shun to call me sister, dwell with 

you ; 670 

Wear black and white, and be a nun 

like you, 
Fast with your fasts, not feasting with 

your feasts ; 
Grieve with your griefs, not grieving 

at your joys, 
But not rejoicing ; mingle with your 

rites ; 
Pray and be pray'd for; lie before 

your shrines ; 
Do each low office of your holy house ; 
Walk your dim cloister, and distribute 

dole 
To poor sick people, richer in His 

eyes 
Who ransom'd us, and haler too than I; 
And treat their loathsome hurts and 

heal mine own ; 680 

And so wear out in alms-deed and in 

prayer 
The sombre close of that voluptuous 

day 
Which wrought the ruin of my lord 

the King.' 

She said. They took her to them- 
selves; and she 

Still hoping, fearing 'Is it yet too 
late ? ' 

Dwelt with them, till in time their 
abbess died. 

Then she, for her good deeds and her 
pure life, 

And for the power of ministration in 
her, 

And likewise for the high rank she 
had borne, 



THE PASSING OF ARTHUR 



567 



Was chosen abbess, there, an abbess, 
lived 690 

For three brief years, and there, an 
abbess, past 

To where beyond these voices there 
is peace. 



THE PASSING OF ARTHUR 

That story which the bold Sir Bedi- 

vere, 
First made and latest left of all the 

knights, 
Told, when the man was no more than 

a voice 
In the white winter of his age, to those 
With whom he dwelt, new faces, other 

minds. 

For on their march to westward, 
Bedivere, 

Who slowly paced among the slum- 
bering host, 

Heard in his tent the moanings of the 
King: 

' I found Him in the shining of the 

stars, 
I mark'd Him in the flowering of His 

fields, 10 

But in His ways with men I find Him 

not. 
I waged His wars, and now I pass and 

die. 
O me ! for why is all around us here 
As if some lesser god had made the 

world, 
But had not force to shape it as he 

would, 
Till the High God behold it from be- 
yond, 
And enter it, and make it beautiful ? 
Or else as if the world were wholly 

fair, 
But that these eyes of men are dense 

and dim, 
And have not power to see it as it is — 
Perchance, because we see not to the 

close ; — 21 

For I, being simple, thought to work 

His will, 
And have but stricken with the sword 

in vain, 
And all whereon I lean'd in wife and 

friend 



Is traitor to my peace, and all my realm 
Reels back into the beast, and is no 

more. 
My God, thou hast forgotten me in 

my death ! 
Nay — God my Christ — I pass but 

shall not die/ 

Then, ere that last weird battle in 

the west, 
There came on Arthur sleeping, Ga- 

wain kill'd 30 

In Lancelot's war, the ghost of Gawain 

blown 
Along a wandering wind, and past his 

ear 
Went shrilling: 'Hollow, hollow all 

delight ! 
Hail, King ! to-morrow thou shalt pass 

away. 
Farewell ! there is an isle of rest for 

thee. 
And I am blown along a wandering 

wind, 
And hollow, hollow, hollow all de- 
light ! ' 
And fainter onward, like wild birds 

that change 
Their season in the night and wail 

their way 
From cloud to cloud, down the long 

wind the dream 40 

Shrill'd ; but in going mingled with 

dim cries 
Far in the moonlit haze among the 

hills, 
As of some lonely city sack'd by night, 
When all is lost, and wife and child 

with wail 
Pass to new lords ; and Arthur woke 

and call'd : 
1 Who spake ? A dream. O, light upon 

the wind, 
Thine, Gawain, was the voice — are 

these dim cries 
Thine ? or doth all that haunts the 

waste and wild 
Mourn, knowing it will go along with 

me?' 

This heard the bold Sir Bedivere 
and spake : 50 

'O me, my King, let pass whatever 
will, 

Elves, and the harmless glamour of 
the field : 



5 68 



IDYLLS OF THE KING 



But in their stead thy name and glory 

cling 
To all high places like a golden cloud 
For ever ; but as yet thou shalt not 

pass. 
Light was Gawain in life, and light in 

death 
Is Gawain, for the ghost is as the 

man; 
And care not thou for dreams from 

him, but rise — 
I hear the steps of Modred in the west, 
And with him many of thy people, 

and knights 60 

Once thine, whom thou hast loved, 

but grosser grown 
Than heathen, spitting at their vows 

and thee. 
Right well in heart they know thee 

for the King. 
Arise, go forth and conquer as of old.' 

Then spake King Arthur to Sir 

Bedivere : 
' Far other is this battle in the west 
Whereto we move than when we 

strove in youth, 
And brake the petty kings, and fought 

with Rome, 
Or thrust the heathen from the Roman 

wall, 
And shook him thro' the north. Ill 

doom is mine 70 

To war against my people and my 

knights. 
The king who fights his people fights 

himself. 
And they my knights, who loved me 

once, the stroke 
That strikes them dead is as my death 

to me. 
Yet let us hence, and find or feel a way 
Thro' this blind haze which, ever since 

I saw 
One lying in the dust at Almesbury, 
Hath folded in the passes of the 

world.' 

Then rose the King and moved his 

host by night, 
And ever push'd Sir Modred, league 

by league, 80 

Back to the sunset bound of Lyon- 

nesse — 
A land of old upheaven from the abyss 
By fire, to sink into the abyss again ; 



Where fragments of forgotten peoples 

dwelt, 
And the long mountains ended in a 

coast 
Of ever-shifting sand, and far away 
The phantom circle of a moaning 

sea. 
There the pursuer could pursue no s 

more, 
And he that fled no further fly the 

King ; 
And there, that day when the great 

light of heaven 90 

Burn'd at his lowest in the rolling year, 
On the waste sand by the waste sea 

they closed. 
Nor ever yet had Arthur fought a 

fight 
Like this last, dim, weird battle of the 

west. 
A death-white mist slept over sand 

and sea, 
Whereof the chill, to him who breathed 

it, drew 
Down with his blood, till all his heart 

was cold 
With formless fear; and even on 

Arthur fell 
Confusion, since he saw not whom he 

fought. 
For friend and foe were shadows in 

the mist, 100 

And friend slew friend not knowing 

whom he slew ; 
And some had visions out of golden 

youth, 
And some beheld the faces of old 

ghosts 
Look in upon the battle ; and in the 

mist 
Was many a noble deed, many a base, 
And chance and craft and strength in 

single fights, 
And ever and anon with host to host 
Shocks, and the splintering spear, the 

hard mail hewn, 
Shield-breakings, and the clash of 

brands, the crash 
Of battle-axes on shatter'd helms, and 

shrieks no 

After the Christ, of those who falling 

down 
Look'd up for heaven, and only saw 

the mist ; 
And shouts of heathen and the traitor 

knights, 



THE PASSING OF ARTHUR 



569 



Oaths, insult, filth, and monstrous 

blasphemies, 
Sweat, writhings, anguish, laboring 

of the lungs 
In that close mist, and cryings for the 

light, 
Moans of the dying, and voices of the 

dead. 

Last, as by some one death-bed 

after wail 
Of suffering, silence follows, or thro' 

death 
Or death-like swoon, thus over all 

that shore, 120 

Save for some whisper of the seething 

seas, 
A dead hush fell ; but when the dolor- 
ous day 
Grew drearier toward twilight falling, 

came 
A bitter wind, clear from the north, 

and blew 
The mist aside, and with that wind 

the tide 
Rose, and the pale King glanced 

across the field 
Of battle. But no man was moving 

there ; 
Nor any cry of Christian heard thereon, 
Nor yet of heathen; only the wan 

wave 
Brake in among dead faces, to and fro 
Swaying the helpless hands, and up 

and down 131 

Tumbling the hollow helmets of the 

fallen, 
And shiver'd brands that once had 

fought with Rome, 
And rolling far along the gloomy 

shores 
The voice of days of old and days to 
'be. 

Then spake King Arthur to Sir 

Bedivere, 
And whiter than the mist that all day 

long 
Had held the field of battle was the 

King: 

1 Hearest thou this great voice that 

shakes the world, 
And wastes the narrow realm whereon 

we move, 140 

And beats upon the faces of the dead, 



My dead, as tho' they had not died 

for me ? — 
O Bedivere, for on my heart hath 

fallen 
Confusion, till I know not what I 

am, 
Nor whence I am, nor whether I be 

king; 
Behold, I seem but king among the 

dead.' 

Then spake the bold Sir Bedivere : 

' My King ! 
King everywhere ! and so the dead 

have kings, 
There also will I worship thee as king. 
Yet still thy life is whole, and still I 

live 150 

Who love thee ; but who hates thee, 

he that brought 
The heathen back among us, yonder 

stands, 
Modred, unharm'd, the traitor of thine 

house.' 

Then spake the King: 'My house 

hath been my doom. 
But call not thou this traitor of my 

house 
Who hath but dwelt beneath one roof 

with me. 
My house are rather they who sware 

my vows, 
Yea, even while they brake them, 

own'd me king. 
And well for thee, saying in my dark 

hour, 
When all the purport of my throne 

hath fail'd, 160 

That quick or dead thou holdest me 

for king. 
King am I, whatsoever be their cry ; 
And one last act of kinghood shalt 

thou see 
Yet, ere I pass.' And uttering this 

the King 
Made at the man. Then Modred smote 

his liege 
Hard on that helm which many a 

heathen sword 
Had beaten thin ; while Arthur at one 

blow, 
Striking the last stroke with Excali- 

bur, 
Slew him, and, all but slain himself, 

he fell. 



57° 



IDYLLS OF THE KING 



So all day long the noise of battle 

roll'd 170 

Among the mountains by the winter 

sea, 
Until King Arthur's Table, man by 

man, 
Had fallen in Lyonnesse about their 

lord, 
King Arthur ; then, because his wound 

was deep, 
The bold Sir Bedivere uplifted him, 
And bore him to a chapel nigh the 

field, 
A broken chancel with a broken cross, 
That stood on a dark strait of barren 

land. 
On one side lay the Ocean, and on 

one 
Lay a great water, and the moon was 

full. 180 

Then spake King Arthur to Sir 

Bedivere : 
' The sequel of to-day unsolders all 
The goodliest fellowship of famous 

knights 
Whereof this world holds record. Such 

a sleep 
They sleep — the men I loved. I 

think that we 
Shall never more, at any future time, 
Delight our souls with talk of knightly 

deeds, 
Walking about the gardens and the 

halls 
Of Camelot, as in the days that were. 
I perish by this people which I made, — 
Tho' Merlin sware that I should come 

again 191 

To rule once more — but let what will 

be be, 
I am so deeply smitten thro' the helm 
That without help I cannot last till 

morn. 
Thou therefore take my brand Excal- 

ibur, 
Which was my pride ; for thou re- 

memberest how 
In those old days, one summer noon, 

an arm 
Rose up from out the bosom of the 

lake, 
Clothed in white samite, mystic, won- 
derful, 
Holding the sword — and how I row'd 

across 200 



And took it, and have worn it, like a 

king ; 
And, wheresoever I am sung or told 
In aftertime, this also shall be known. 
But now delay not ; take Excalibur, 
And fling him far into the middle 

mere; 
Watch what thou seest, and lightly 

bring me word.' 

To him replied the bold Sir Bedivere : 
1 It is not meet, Sir King, to leave thee 

thus, 
Aidless, alone, and smitten thro' the 

helm — 
A little thing may harm a wounded 

man ; 210 

Yet I thy hest will all perform at full, 
Watch what I see, and lightly bring 

thee word.' 

So saying, from the ruin'd shrine 
he stept, 

And in the moon athwart the place of 
tombs, 

Where lay the mighty bones of an- 
cient men, 

Old knights, and over them the sea- 
wind sang 

Shrill, chill, with flakes of foam. He, 
stepping down 

By zigzag paths and juts of pointed 
rock, 

Came on the shining levels of the lake. 

There drew he forth the brand Ex- 
calibur, 220 

And o'er him, drawing it, the winter 
moon, 

Brightening the skirts of a long cloud, 
ran forth 

And sparkled keen with frost against 
the hilt ; 

For all the haft twinkled with dia- 
mond sparks, 

Myriads of topaz-lights, and jacinth- 
work 

Of subtlest jewellery. He gazed so 
long 

That both his eyes were dazzled as he 
stood, 

This way and that dividing the swift 
mind, 

In act to throw ; but at the last it 
seem'd 

Better to leave Excalibur conceal'd 230 



THE PASSING OF ARTHUR 



57i 



There in the many-knotted water-flags, 
That whistled stiff and dry about the 

marge. 
So strode he back slow to the wounded 

King. 

Then spake King Arthur to Sir 

Bedivere : 
'Hast thou perform'd my mission 

which I gave ? 
What is it thou hast seen? or what 

hast heard ? ' 

And answer made the bold Sir Bedi- 
vere : 

'I heard the ripple washing in the 
reeds, 

And the wild water lapping on the 
crag.' 

To whom replied King Arthur, faint 

and pale : 240 

' Thou hast betray' d thy nature and 

thy name, 
Not rendering true answer, as beseem'd 
Thy fealty, nor like a noble knight ; 
For surer sign had folio w'd, either 

hand, 
Or voice, or else a motion of the mere. 
This is a shameful thing for men to 

lie. 
Yet now, I charge thee, quickly go 

again, 
As thou art lief and dear, and do the 

thing 
I bade thee, watch, and lightly bring 

me word.' 

Then went Sir Bedivere the second 

time 250 

Across the ridge, and paced beside the 

mere, 
Counting the dewy pebbles, fixt in 

thought ; 
But when he saw the wonder of the 

hilt, 
How curiously and strangely chased, 

he smote 
His palms together, and he cried aloud : 

'And if indeed I cast the brand 

away, 
Surely a precious thing, one worthy 

note, 
Should thus be lost for ever from the 

earth, 



Which might have pleased the eyes of 

many men. 
What good should follow this, if this 

were done ? 260 

What harm, undone ? Deep harm to 

disobey, 
Seeing obedience is the bond of rule. 
Were it well to obey then, if a king 

demand 
An act unprofitable, against himself ? 
The King is sick, and knows not what 

he does. 
What record or what relic of my lord 
Should be to aftertime, but empty 

breath 
And rumors of a doubt ? But were 

this kept, 
Stored in some treasure-house of 

mighty kings, 
Some one might show it at a joust of 

arms, 270 

Saying: "King Arthur's sword, Ex- 

calibur, 
Wrought by the lonely Maiden of the 

Lake. 
Nine years she wrought it, sitting in 

the deeps 
Upon the hidden bases of the hills." 
So might some old man speak in the 

aftertime 
To all the people, winning reverence. 
But now much honor and much fame 

were lost.' 

So spake he, clouded with his own 

conceit, 
And hid Excalibur the second time, 
And so strode back slow to the 

wounded King. 280 

Then spoke King Arthur, breathing 
heavily : 
' What is it thou hast seen? or what 
hast heard ? ' 

And answer made the bold Sir Bedi- 
vere: 
1 1 heard the water lapping on the crag, 
And the long ripple washing in the 
reeds.' 

To whom replied King Arthur, 
much in wrath : 
1 Ah miserable, and unkind, untrue, 
Unknightly, traitor-hearted ! Woe is 



572 



IDYLLS OF THE KING 



Authority forgets a dying king, 
Laid widow' d of the power in his 

eye 290 

That bow'd the will. I see thee what 

thou art, 
For thou, the latest-left of all my 

knights, 
In whom should meet the offices of all, 
Thou wouldst betray me for the pre- 
cious hilt ; 
Either from lust of gold, or like a girl 
Valuing the giddy pleasure of the 

eyes. 
Yet, for a man may fail in duty twice, 
And the third time may prosper, get 

thee hence ; 
But, if thou spare to fling Excalibur, 
I will arise and slay thee with my 

hands/ 300 

Then quickly rose Sir Bedivere, and 
ran, 

And, leaping down the ridges lightly, 
plunged 

Among the bulrush beds, and clutch'd 
the sword, 

And strongly wheeled and threw it. 
The great brand 

Made lightnings in the splendor of the 
moon, 

And flashing round and round, and 
whirl'd in an arch, 

Shot like a streamer of the northern 
morn, 

Seen where the moving isles of win- 
ter shock 

By night, with noises of the Northern 
Sea. 

So flash'd and fell the brand Excali- 
bur ; 310 

But ere he dipt the surface, rose an 
arm 

Clothed in white samite, mystic, won- 
derful, 

And caught him by the hilt, and bran- 
dish'd him 

Three times, and drew him under in 
the mere. 

And lightly went the other to the King. 

Then spoke King Arthur, drawing 

thicker breath : 
1 Now see I by thine eyes that this is 

done. 
Speak out ; what is it thou hast heard, 

or seen ? ' 



And answer made the bold Sir Bedi- 
vere : 

' Sir King, I closed mine eyelids, lest 
the gems 320 

Should blind my purpose, for I never 
saw, 

Nor shall see, here or elsewhere, till I 
die, 

Not tho' I live three lives of mortal 
men, 

So great a miracle as yonder hilt. 

Then with both hands I flung him, 
wheeling him ; 

But when I look'd again, behold an 
arm, 

Clothed in white samite, mystic, won- 
derful, 

That caught him by the hilt, and bran- 
dish' d him 

Three times, and drew him under in 
the mere/ 

And answer made King Arthur, 

breathing hard : 330 

'My end draws nigh ; 'tis time that 

I were gone. 
Make broad thy shoulders to receive 

my weight, 
And bear me to the margin ; yet I 

fear 
My wound hath taken cold, and I 

shall die. ' 

So saying, from the pavement he 

half rose, 
Slowly, with pain, reclining on his 

arm, 
And looking wistfully with wide blue 

eyes ' 
As in a picture. Him Sir Bedivere 
Remorsefully regarded thro' his tears, 
And would have spoken, but he found 

not words ; 340 

Then took with care, and kneeling on 

one knee, 
O'er both his shoulders drew the lan- 
guid hands, 
And rising bore him thro' the place of 

tombs. 

But, as he walk'd, King Arthur 

panted hard, 
Like one that feels a nightmare on his 

bed 
When all the house is mute. So sigh'd 

the King, 



THE PASSING OF ARTHUR 



573 



Muttering and murmuring at his ear, 

' Quick, quick ! 
I fear it is too late, and I shall die/ 
But the other swiftly strode from ridge 

to ridge, 
Clothed with his breath, and looking, 

as he walk'd, 350 

Larger than human on the frozen 

hills. 
He heard the deep behind him, and a 

cry 
Before. His own thought drove him 

like a goad. 
Dry clash'd his harness in the icy 

caves 
And barren chasms, and all to left and 

right 
The bare black cliff clang' d round him, 

as he based 
His feet on juts of slippery crag that 

rang 
Sharp-smitten with the dint of armed 

heels — 
And on a sudden, lo, the level lake, 
And the long glories of the winter 

moon ! 360 

Then saw they how there hove a 

dusky barge, 
Dark as a funeral scarf from stem to 

stern, 
Beneath them ; and descending they 

were ware 
That all the decks were dense with 

stately forms, 
Black-stoled, black-hooded, like a 

dream — by these 
Three queens with crowns of gold — 

and from them rose 
A cry that shiver'd to the tingling 

stars, 
And, as it were one voice, an agony 
Of lamentation, like a wind that shrills 
All night in a waste land, where no 

one comes, 370 

Or hath come, since the making of the 

world. 

Then murmur' d Arthur, ' Place me 

in the barge.' 
So to the barge they came. There 

those three queens 
Put forth their hands, and took the 

King, and wept. 
But she that rose the tallest of them 

all 



And fairest laid his head upon her 
lap, 

And loosed the shatter'd casque, and 
chafed his hands, 

And call'd him by his name, complain- 
ing loud, 

And dropping bitter tears against a 
brow 

Striped with dark blood ; for all his 
face was white 380 

And colorless, and like the wither' d 
moon 

Smote by the fresh beam of the spring- 
ing east ; 

And all his greaves and cuisses dash'd 
with drops 

Of onset ; and the light and lustrous 
curls — 

That made his forehead like a rising 
sun 

High from the dais-throne — were 
parch'd with dust, 

Or, clotted into points and hanging 
loose, 

Mixt with the knightly growth that 
fringed his lips. 

So like a shatter'd column lay the 
King ; 

Not like that Arthur who, with lance 
in rest, 390 

From spur to plume a star of tourna- 
ment, 

Shot thro' the lists at Camelot, and 
charged 

Before the eyes of ladies and of kings. 

Then loudly cried the bold Sir Bedi- 

vere: 
' Ah ! my Lord Arthur, whither shall I 

go? 
Where shall I hide my forehead and 

my eyes ? 
For now I see the true old times are 

dead, 
When every morning brought a noble 

chance, 
And every chance brought out a noble 

knight. 
Such times have been not since the 

light that led 400 

The holy Elders with the gift of 

myrrh. 
But now the whole Round Table is 

dissolved 
Which was an image of the mighty 

world ; 



574 



IDYLLS OF THE KING 



And I, the last, go forth companion- 
less, 

And the days darken round me, and 
the years, 

Among new men, strange faces, other 
minds. ' 

And slowly answer'd Arthur from 

the barge : 
'The old order changeth, yielding 

place to new, 
And God fulfils himself in many 

ways, 
Lest one good custom should corrupt 

the world. 410 

Comfort thyself ; what comfort is in 

me ? 
I have lived my life, and that which I 

have done 
May He within himself make pure ! 

r— * but thou, 
If thou shouldst never see my face 

again, 
Pray for my soul. More things are 

wrought by prayer . 
Than this world dreams of. Where- 
fore, let thy voice 
Rise like a fountain for me night and 

/p da *y- 

For what are men better than sheep 

or goats 
That nourish a blind life within the 

brain, 
If, knowing God, they lift not hands 

of prayer 420 

Both for themselves and those who 

call them friend ? 
For so the whole round earth is every 

way 
Bound by gold chains about the feet 
*-* of God. 

But now farewell. I am going a long 

way 
With these thou seest — if indeed I 

go — 
For all my mind is clouded with a 

doubt — 
To the island-valley of Avilion ; 
Where falls not hail, or rain, or any 

snow, 
Nor ever wind blows loudly ; but it 

lies 
Deep-meadow'd, happy, fair with or- 
chard lawns 430 
And bowery hollows crown'd with 

summer sea, 



Where I will heal me of my grievous 
wound/ 

So said he, and the barge with oar 

and sail 
Moved from the brink, like some full- 
breasted swan 
That, fluting a wild carol ere her death, 
Ruffles her pure cold plume, and takes 

the flood 
With swarthy webs. Long stood Sir 

Bedivere 
Revolving many memories, till the 

hull 
Look'd one black dot against the verge 

of dawn. 
And on the mere the wailing died 

away. 440 

But when that moan had past for 
evermore, 

The stillness of the dead world's win- 
ter dawn 

Amazed him, and he groan'd, 'The 
King is gone/ 

And therewithal came on him the 
weird rhyme, 

' From the great deep to the great 
deep he goes/ 

Whereat he slowly turn'd and slowly 

clomb 
The last hard footstep of that iron 

crag, 
Thence mark'd the black hull moving 

yet, and cried: 
' He passes to be king among the dead, 
And after healing of his grievous 

wound 450 

He comes again ; but — if he come no 

more — 
O me, be yon dark queens in yon 

black boat, 
Who shriek'd and wail'd, the three 

whereat we gazed 
On that high day, when, clothed with 

living light, 
They stood before his throne in silence, 

friends 
Of Arthur, who should help him at 

his need V 

Then from the dawn it seem'd there 
came, but faint 
As from beyond the limit of the world, 
Like the last echo born of a great cry, 



TO THE QUEEN 



575 



Sounds, as if some fair city were one 
voice 460 

Around a king returning from his wars. 

Thereat once more he moved about, 

and clomb 
Even to the highest he could climb, 

and saw, 
Straining his eyes beneath an arch of 

hand, 
Or thought he saw, the speck that bare 

the King, 
Down that long water opening on the 

deep 
Somewhere far off, pass on and on, 

and go 
From less to less and vanish into 

light. 
And the new sun rose bringing the 

new year. 



TO THE QUEEN 

O loyal to the royal in thyself, 
And loyal to thy land, as this to 

thee — 
Bear witness, that rememberable day, 
When, pale as yet and fever- worn, the 

Prince 
Who scarce had pluck'd his flickering 

life again 
From halfway down the shadow of 

the grave 
Past with thee thro' thy people and 

their love, 
And London roll'd one tide of joy thro' 

all 
Her trebled millions, and loud leagues 

of man 
And welcome ! witness, too, the silent 

cry, 10 

The prayer of many a race and creed, 

and clime — 
Thunderless lightnings striking un- 
der sea 
From sunset and sunrise of all thy 

realm, 
And that true North, whereof we 

lately heard 
A strain to shame us, ' Keep you to 

yourselves ; 
So loyal is too costly ! friends — your 

love 
Is but a burthen ; loose the bond, and 

go/ 



Is this the tone of empire? here the 

faith 
That made us rulers ? this, indeed, her 

voice 
And meaning whom the roar of Hou- 

goumont 20 

Left mightiest of all peoples under 

heaven ? 
What shock has fool'd her since, that 

she should speak 
So feebly ? wealthier — wealthier — 

hour by hour ! 
The voice of Britain, or a sinking 

land, 
Some third-rate isle half-lost among 

her seas ? 
There rang her voice, when the full 

city peal'd 
Thee and thy Prince ! The loyal to 

their crown 
Are loyal to their own far sons, who 

love 
Our ocean-empire with her boundless 

homes 
For ever-broadening England, and 

her throne 30 

In our vast Orient, and one isle, one 

isle, 
That knows not her own greatness ; if 

she knows 
And dreads it we are fallen. — But 

thou, my Queen, 
Not for itself, but thro' thy living 

love 
For one to whom I made it o'er his 

grave 
Sacred, accept this old imperfect tale, 
New-old, and shadowing Sense at war 

with Soul, 
Ideal manhood closed in real man, 
Rather than that gray king whose 

name, a ghost, 
Streams like a cloud, man-shaped, 

from mountain peak, 40 

And cleaves to cairn and cromlech still ; 

or him 
Of Geoffrey's book, or him of Mal- 

leor's, one 
Touch'd by the adulterous finger of a 

time 
That hover'd between war and wan- 
tonness, 
And crownings and dethronements. 

Take withal 
Thy poet's blessing, and his trust that 

Heaven 



576 



IDYLLS OF THE KING 



Will blow the tempest in the distance 

back 
From thine and ours ; for some are 

scared, who mark, 
Or wisely or unwisely, signs of 

storm, 
Waverings of every vane with every 

wind, 50 

And wordy trucklings to the transient 

hour, 
And fierce or careless looseners of the 

faith, 
And Softness breeding scorn of simple 

life, 
Or Cowardice, the child of lust for 

gold, 
Or Labor, with a groan and not a 

voice, 
Or Art with poisonous honey stolen 

from France, 



And that which knows, but careful for 

itself, 
And that which knows not, ruling 

that which knows 
To its own harm. The goal of this 

great world 
Lies beyond sight ; yet — if our slowly- 
grown 60 
And crown' d Republic's crowning 

common sense, 
That saved her many times, not fail — 

their fears 
Are morning shadows huger than the 

shapes 
That cast them, not those gloomier 

which forego 
The darkness of that battle in the 

west 
Where all of high and holy dies 

away. 




Christopher Columbus (see p. 603) 



BALLADS AND OTHER POEMS 



TO ALFRED TENNYSON 



MY GRANDSON 

Golden-hair'd Ally whose name is 

one with mine, 
Crazy with laughter and babble and 

earth's new wine, 
Now that the flower of a year and a 

half is thine, 
O little blossom, O mine, and mine of 

mine, 
Glorious poet who never hast written 

a line, 
Laugh, for the name at the head of 

my verse is thine. 
Mayst thou never be wrong'd by the 

name that is mine ! 



THE FIRST QUARREL 
(in the isle of wight) 



1 Wait a little/ you say, ' you are sure 

it'll all come right/ 
But the boy was born i' trouble, an' 

looks' so wan an' so white ; 
Wait! an' once I ha' waited — I had n't 

to wait for long. 
Now I wait, wait, wait for Harry. — 

No, no, you are doing me 

wrong ! 
Harry and I were married ; the boy 

can hold up his head, 
The boy was born in wedlock, but 

after my man was dead ; 



578 



BALLADS AND OTHER POEMS 



I ha' work'd for him fifteen years, an' 
I work an' I wait to the end. 

I am all alone in the world, an' you 
are my only friend. 



Doctor, if you can wait, I '11 tell you 

the tale o' my life. 
When Harry an' I were children, he 

call'd me his own little wife ; 10 
I was happy when I was with him, 

an' sorry when he was away, 
An' when we play'd together, I loved 

him better than play ; 
He workt me the daisy chain — he 

made me the cowslip ball, 
He fought the boys that were rude, 

an' I loved him better than all. 
Passionate girl tho' I was, an' often at 

home in disgrace, 
I never could quarrel with Harry — I 

had but to look in his face. 

in 
There was a farmer in Dorset of 

Harry's kin, that had need 
Of a good stout lad at his farm; he 

sent, an' the father agreed ; 
So Harry was bound to the Dorsetshire 

farm for years an' for years ; 19 
I walk'd with him down to the quay, 

poor lad, an' we parted in tears. 
The boat was beginning to move, we 

heard them a-ringing the bell, 
' 1 '11 never love any but you, God bless 

you, my own little Nell.' 

IV 

I was a child, an' he was a child, an' 

he came to harm ; 
There was a girl, a hussy, that workt 

with him up at the farm, 
One had deceived her an' left her alone 

with her sin an' her shame, 
And so she was wicked with Harry ; 

the girl was the most to blame. 



And years went over till I that was 

little had grown so tall 
The men would say of the maids, ' Our 

Nelly's the flower of 'em all.' 
I did n't take heed o' them, but I taught 

myself all I could 
To make a good wife for Harry, when 

Harry came home for good. 30 



Often I seem'd unhappy, and often as 

happy too, 
For I heard it abroad in the fields, ' I '11 

never love any but you ; ' 
'I'll never love any but you,' the 

morning song of the lark ; 
'I'll never love any but you,' the 

nightingale' s hymn in the dark. 



And Harry came home at last, but he 

look'd at me sidelong and shy, 
Vext me a bit, till he told me that so 

many years had gone by, 
I had grown so handsome and tall — 

that I might ha' forgot him 

somehow — 
For he thought — there were other 

lads — he was fear'd to look at 



VIII 

Hard was the frost in the field, we 

were married o' Christmas day, 
Married among the red berries, an' all 

as merry as May — 40 

Those were the pleasant times, my 

house an' my man were my 

pride, 
We seem'd like ships i' the Channel 

a-sailing with wind an' tide. 



But work was scant in the Isle, tho r 

he tried the villages round, 
So Harry went over the Solent to see 

if work could be found ; 
An' he wrote : ' I ha' six weeks' work, 

little wife, so far as I know ; 
I '11 come for an hour to-morrow, an" 

kiss you before I go.' 



So I set to righting the house, for 

was n' t he coming that day ? 
An' I hit on an old deal-box that was 

push'd in a corner away, 
It was full of old odds an' ends, an' a 

letter along wi' the rest, 
I had better ha' put my naked hand 

in a hornets' nest. 50 

XI 

'Sweetheart,' — this was the letter — 
this was the letter 1 read — 






RIZPAH 



579 



1 You promised to find me work near 
you, an' I wish I was dead — 

Did n't you kiss me an' promise ? you 
have n't done it, my lad, 

An' I almost died o' your going away, 
an' I wish that I had. ' 

XII 

I too wish that I had — in the pleasant 

times that had past, 
Before I quarrell'd with Harry — my 

quarrel — the first an' the last. 

XIII 

For Harry came in, an' I flung 

him the letter that drove me 

wild, 
An' he told it me all at once, as sim- 
ple as any child, 
' What can it matter, my lass, what I 

did wi' my single life ? 
I ha' been as true to you as ever a 

man to his wife ; 6o 

An' she wasn't one o' the worst.' 

'Then/ I said, 'I'm none o' 

the best. ' 
An' he smiled at me, ' Ain't you, my 

love ? Come, come, little wife, 

let it rest ! 
The man isn't like the woman, no 

need to make such a stir.' 
But he anger'd me all the more, an' I 

said, 'You were keeping with 

her, 
When I was a-loving you all along 

an' the same as before.' 
An' he didn't speak for a while, 

an' he anger'd me more and 

more. 
Then he patted my hand in his gentle 

way, ' Let bygones be ! ' 
'Bygones! you kept yours hush'd,' I 

said, ' when you married me ! 
By-gones ma' be come-agains ; an' she 

— in her shame an' her sin — 
You '11 have her to nurse my child, if 

I die o' my lying in ! 70 

You'll make her its second mother! 

I hate her — an' I hate you ! ' 
Ah, Harry, my man, you had better 

ha' beaten me black an' blue 
Than ha' spoken as kind as you 

did, when I were so crazy wi' 

spite, 
' Wait a little, my lass, I am sure it 'ill 

all come right/ 



XIV 

An' he took three turns in the rain, 

an' I watch'd him, an' when he 

came in 
I felt that my heart was hard ; he was 

all wet thro' to the skin, 
An' I never said, 'off wi' the wet,' I 

never said, 'on wi' the dry,' 
So I knew my heart was hard, when 

he came to bid me good-bye. 
' You said that you hated me, Ellen, 

but that is n't true, you know ; 
I am going to leave you a bit — you '11 

kiss me before I go ? ' 80 

xv 
'Going! you're going to her — kiss 

her — if you will,' I said — 
I was near my time wi' the boy, I must 

ha' been light i' my head — 
' I had sooner be cursed than kiss'd ! ' 

— I didn't know well what I 

meant, 
But I turn'd my face from him, an' 

he turn'd his face an' he went. 



And then he sent me a letter, 'I've 

gotten my work to do ; 
You would n't kiss me, my lass, an' I 

never loved any but you ; 
I am sorry for all the quarrel an' 

sorry for what she wrote, 
I ha' six weeks' work in Jersey an' go 

to-night by the boat. ' 

XVII 

An' the wind began to rise, an' I 

thought of him out at sea, 
An' I felt I had been to blame ; he 

was always kind to me. 90 

'Wait a little, my lass, I am sure it 

'ill all come right' — 
An' the boat went down that night — 

the boat went down that night. 



RIZPAH 
17— 



Wailing, wailing, wailing, the wind 

over land and sea — 
And Willy's voice in the wind, O 

mother, come out to me ! ' 



5 8o 



BALLADS AND OTHER POEMS 



Why should he call me to-night, when 
he knows that I cannot go ? 

For the downs are as bright as day, 
and the full moon stares at the 
snow. 



We should be seen, my dear ; they 

would spy us out of the town. 
The loud black nights for us, and the 

storm rushing over the down, 
When I cannot see my own hand, but 

am led by the creak of the chain, 
And grovel and grope for my son till 

I find myself drenched with the 



Anything fallen again? nay — what 

was there left to fall ? 
I have taken them home, I have num- 

ber'd the bones, I have hidden 

them all. 10 

What am I saying? and what are 

you f do you come as a spy ? 
Falls? what falls? who knows? As 

the tree falls so must it lie. 



Who let her in ? how long has she been? 

you — what have you heard ? 
Why did you sit so quiet ? you never 

have spoken a word. 
O — to pray with me — yes — a lady 

— none of their spies — 
But the night has crept into my heart, 

and begun to darken my eyes. 



Ah — you, that have lived so soft, what 

should you know of the night, 
The blast and the burning shame and 

the bitter frost and the fright ? 
I have done it, while you were asleep 

— you were only made for the 

day. 
I have gather'd my baby together — 

and now you may go your way. 



Nay — for it's kind of you, madam, 
to sit by an old dying wife. 21 

But say nothing hard of my boy, I 
have only an hour of life. 

I kiss'd my boy in the prison, before 
he went out to die. 



' They dared me to do it/ he said, and 

he never has told me a lie. 
I whipt him for robbing an orchard 

once when he was but a child — 
'The farmer dared me to do it,' he 

said ; he was always so wild — 
And idle — and could n't be idle — my 

Willy — he never could rest. 
The King should have made him a 

soldier, he would have been 

one of his best. 

VII 

But he lived with a lot of wild mates, 

and they never would let him 

be good ; 
They swore that he dare not rob the 

mail, and he swore that he 

would ; 30 

And he took no life, but he took 

one purse, and when all was 

done 
He flung it among his fellows — 'I'll 

none of it,' said my son. 



I came into court to the judge and the 
lawyers. I told them my tale, 

God's own truth — but they kill'd 
him, they kill'd him for rob- 
bing the mail. 

They hang'd him in chains for a show 
— we had always borne a good 
name — 

To be hang'd for a thief — and then 
put away — isn't that enough 
shame ? 

Dust to dust — low down — let us 
hide ! but they set him so high 

That all the ships of the world could 
stare at him, passing by. 

God 'ill pardon the hell-black raven 
and horrible fowls of the air, 

But not the black heart of the lawyer 
who kill'd him and hang'd him 
there. 40 



And the jailer forced me away. I had 

bid him my last good-bye ; 
They had fasten'd the door of his cell. 

' O mother ! ' I heard him cry. 
I couldn't get back tho' I tried, he 

had something further to say, 
And now I never shall know it. The 

jailer forced me away. 



RIZPAH 



58i 



Then since I couldn't but hear that 

cry of my boy that was dead, 
They seized me and shut me up: 

they fasten' d me down on my 

bed. 
' Mother, O mother ! ' — he call'd in the 

dark to me year after year — 
They beat me for that, they beat me 

— you know that I couldn't 
but hear ; 

And then at the last they found I had 
grown so stupid and still 

They let me abroad again — but the 
creatures had worked their will. 

XI 

Flesh of my flesh was gone, but bone 

of my bone was left — 51 

I stole them all from the lawyers — and 

you, will you call it a theft ? — 
My baby, the bones that had suck'd 

me, the bones that had laughed 

and had cried — 
Theirs ? O, no ! they are mine — not 

theirs — they had moved in my 

side. 

XII 

Do you think I was scared by the 

bones? I kiss'd 'em, I buried 

'em all — 
I can't dig deep, I am old — in the 

night by the churchyard wall. 
My Willy 'ill rise up whole when the 

trumpet of judgment 'ill sound, 
But I charge you never to say that I 

laid him in holy ground. 

XIII 

They would scratch him up — they 
would hang him again on the 
cursed tree. 

Sin ? O, yes, we are sinners, I know 

— let all that be, 60 
And read me a Bible verse of the 

Lord's goodwill toward men — 
'Full of compassion and mercy, the 

Lord ' — let me hear it again ; 
1 Full of compassion and mercy — long- 
suffering.' Yes, O, yes! 
For the lawyer is born but to murder 

— the Saviour lives but to bless. 
He'M never put on the black cap 

except for the worst of the 
worst, 



And the first may be last — I have 

heard it in church — and the 

last may be first. 
Suffering — O, long-suffering — yes, 

as the Lord must know, 
Year after year in the mist and the 

wind and the shower and the 

snow. 

XIV 

Heard, have you? what? they have 

told you he never repented his 

sin. 
How do they know it ? are they his 

mother ? are you of his kin ? 70 
Heard ! have you ever heard, when 

the storm on the downs began, 
The wind that 'ill wail like a child and 

the sea that 'ill moan like a man ? 



Election, Election, and Reprobation — 

it's all very well. 
But I go to-night to my boy, and I 

shall not find him in hell. 
For I cared so much for my boy that 

the Lord has look'd into my 

care, 
And He means me I 'm sure to be happy 

with Willy, I know not where. 

xvi 

And if he be lost — but to save my 

soul, that is all your desire — 
Do you think that I care for my soul 

if my boy be gone to the fire ? 
I have been with God in the dark — go, 

go, you may leave me alone — 
You never have borne a child — you 

are just as hard as a stone. 80 

XVII 

Madam, I beg your pardon ! I think 

that you mean to be kind, 
But I cannot hear what you say for 

my Willy's voice in the wind — 
The snow and the sky so bright — he 

used but to call in the dark, 
And he calls to me now from the 

church and not from the gibbet 

— for hark ! 
Nay — you can hear it yourself — it is 

coming — shaking the walls — 
Willy — the moon's in a cloud 

Good-night. I am going. He 

calls. 



S 82 



BALLADS AND OTHER POEMS 



THE NORTHERN COBBLER 



Waait till our Sally cooms in, fur 

thou mun a' sights 1 to tell. 
Eh, but I be maain glad to seea tha 

sa 'arty an' well. 
'Cast awaay on a disolut land wi' a 

vartical soon 2 ! ' 
Strange fur to goa fur to think what 

saailors a' seean an' a' doon ; 
' Summat to drink sa 'ot ? ' I 'a 

nowt but Adam's wine : 
What's the 'eat o' this little 'ill-side 

to the 'eat o' the line ? 

ii 

' What 's i' tha bottle a-stanning theer ? ' 

I '11 tell tha. Gin. 
But if thou wants thy grog, tha mun 

goa fur it down to the inn. 
Naay — fur I be maain-glad, but thaw 

tha was iver sa dry, 
Thou gits naw gin fro' the bottle 

theer, an' I '11 tell tha why. 10 



Mea an' thy sister was married, when 

wur it ? back-end o' June, 
Ten year sin', and wa 'greed as well 

as a fiddle i' tune. 
I could fettle and clump owd booots 

and shoes wi' the best on 'em all, 
As fer as fro' Thursby thurn hup to 

Harmsby and Hutterby Hall. 
We was busy as beeas i' the bloom an' 

as 'appy as 'art could think, 
An' then the babby wur burn, and 

then I taakes to the drink. 



An' I weant gaainsaay it, my lad, thaw 
I be hafe shaamed on it now, 

We could sing a good song at the 
Plow, we could sing a good 
song at the Plow ; 

1 The vowels ai, pronounced separately 
though in the closest conjunction, best ren- 
der the sound of the long i and y in this 
dialect. But since such words as craiin', 
ddiin\ whai, a'i (I), etc., look awkward ex- 
cept in a page of express phonetics, I have 
thought it better to leave the simple i and 
?/, and to trust that my readers will give 
them the broader pronunciation. 

2 The oo short, as in 'wood.' 



Thaw once of a frosty night I slither' d 

an' hurted my huck, 1 
An' I coom'd neck-an-crop soomtimes 

slaape down i' the squad an' the 

muck : 20 

An' once I f owt wi' the taailor — not 

hafe ov a man, my lad — 
Fur he scrawm'd an' scratted my f aace 

like a cat, an' it maade 'er sa mad 
That Sally she turnd a tongue- 
banger, 2 an' raated ma, ' Sot tin' 

thy braains 
Guzzlin' an' soakin' an' smoakin' an' 

hawmin' 3 about i' the laanes, 
Soa sow-droonk that tha doesn not 

touch thy 'at to the Squire ; ' 
An' I loook'd cock-eyed at my noase 

an' I seead 'im a-gittin' o' fire ; 
But sin' I wur hallus i' liquor an' 

hallus as droonk as a king, 
Foalks' coostom flitted awaay like a 

kite wi' a brokken string. 



An' Sally she wesh'd foalks' cloaths 

to keep the wolf fro' the door, 
Eh, but the moor she riled me, she 

druv me to drink the moor, 30 
Fur I fun', when 'er back wur turn'd, 

wheer Sally's owd stockin' wur 

'id, 
An' I grabb'd the munny she maade, 

and I wear'd it o' liquor, I did. 

YI 

An' one night I cooms 'oam like a bull 

gotten loose at a faair, 
An' she wur a-waaitin' fo'mma, an' 

cry in' and tearin' 'er aair, 
An' I tummled athurt the craadle an' 

swear' d as I 'd break ivry stick 
O' furnitur 'ere i' the 'ouse, an' I gied 

our Sally a kick, 
An' I mash'd the taables an' chairs, 

an' she an' the babby beal'd, 4 
Fur I knaw'd naw moor what I did 

nor a mortal beast o' the feald. 

VII 

An' when I waaked i' the murain' I 
seeM that our Sally went laamed 

Cos' o' the kick as I gied 'er, an' I wur 
dreadful ashaamed ; 40 



1 Hip. 

3 Lounging. 



2 Scold. 

4 Bellowed, cried out. 



THE NORTHERN COBBLER 



583 



An' Sally wur sloomy 1 an' draggle- 
taail'd in an owd turn gown, 

An' the babby's faace wurn't wesh'd, 
an' the 'ole 'ouse hupside down. 

VIII 

An' then I minded our Sally sa pratty 

an' neat an' sweeat, 
Straat as a pole an' clean as a flower 

fro' 'ead to f eeat : 
An' then I minded the fust kiss I gied 

'er by Thursby thurn ; 
Theer wur a lark a-singin' 'is best of 

a Sunday at murn, 
Could n't see 'im, we 'eard 'im a-moun- 

tin' oop 'igher an' 'igher, 
An' then 'e turn'd to the sun, an' 'e 

shined like a sparkle o' fire. 
* Does n't tha see 'im ? ' she axes, ' fur 

I can see 'im ; ' an' I 49 

Seead nobbut the smile o' the sun as 

danced in 'er pratty blue eye ; 
An' I says, 'I mun gie tha a kiss,' an' 

Sally says, 'Noa, thou moant,' 
But I gied 'er a kiss, an' then anoother, 

an' Sally says, ' doant ! ' 



An' when we coom'd into meeatin', at 

fust she wur all in a tew, 
But, arter, we sing'd the 'ymn to- 

gither like birds on a beugh ; 
An' Muggins 'e preach' d o' hell-fire an' 

the loov o' God fur men, 
An' then upo' coomin' awaay Sally 

gied me a kiss ov 'ersen. 



Heer wur a fall fro' a kiss to a kick 

like Saatan as fell 
Down out o' heaven i' hell-fire — thaw 

theer 's naw drinkin' i' hell ; 
Mea fur to kick our Sally as kep the 

wolf fro' the door, 
All along o' the drink, fur I loov'd 'er 

as well as afoor. 60 

XI 

Sa like a graat num-cumpus I blub- 
ber'd awaay o' the bed — 

* Weant niver do it naw moor ; ' an' 
Sally loookt up an' she said, 

' I '11 upowd it 2 tha weant ; thou 'rt 
like the rest o' the men, 

1 Sluggish, out of spirits. 

2 I'll uphold it. 



Thou '11 goa sniffin' about the tap till 

tha does it agean. 
Theer's thy hennemy, man, an' I 

knaws, as knaws tha sa well, 
That, if tha seeas 'im an' smells 'im 

tha '11 foller 'im slick into hell.' 

XII 

' ISTaay,' says I, ' fur I weant goa snif- 
fin' about the tap.' 

' Weant tha ? ' she says, an' mysen I 
thowt i' mysen ' mayhap.' 

' Noa : ' an' I started awaay like a shot, 
an' down to the hinn, 

An' I browt what tha seeas stannin' 
theer, yon big black bottle o' 
gin. 7 o 



1 That caps owt,' * says Sally, an' saw 
she begins to cry, 

But I puts it inter 'er 'ands an' I says 
to 'er, ' Sally,' says I, 

' Stan' 'im theer i' the naame o' the 
Lord an' the power ov 'is graace, 

Stan' 'im theer, fur I '11 loook my hen- 
nemy straait i' the faace, 

Stan' 'im theer i' the winder, an' let 
ma loook at 'im then, 

'E seeams naw moor nor watter, an' 
'e 's the divil's oan sen.' 



An' I wur down i' tha mouth, could n't 

do naw work an' all, 
Nasty an' snaggy an' shaaky, an' 

poonch'd my 'and wi' the hawl, 
But she wur a power o' coomfut, an' 

sattled 'ersen o' my knee, 
An' coaxd an' coodled me oop till agean 

I feel'd mysen free. 80 

xv 
An' Sally she tell'd it about, an' foalk 

stood a-gawmin' 2 in, 
As thaw it wur summat bewitch'd 

istead of a quart o' gin ; 
An' some on 'em said it wur watter — 

an' I wur chousin' the wife, 
Fur I could n't 'owd 'ands off gin, wur 

it nobbut to saave my life ; 
An' blacksmith 'e strips me the thick 

ov is airm, an' 'e shaws it to 

me, 

1 That 's beyond everything. 

2 Staring vacantly. 



5*4 



BALLADS AND OTHER POEMS 



1 Feeal thou this ! thou can't graw this 

upo' watter ! ' says he. 
An' Doctor 'e calls o' Sunday an' just 

as candles was lit, 
1 Thou moant do it,' he says, ' tha mun 

break 'im off bit by bit/ 
'Thou'rt but a Methody-man,' says 

Parson, and laays down 'is 'at, 
An' 'e points to the bottle o' gin, ' but 

I respecks tha fur that ; ' 90 

An' Squire, his oan very sen, walks 

down fro' the 'All to see, 
An' 'e spanks 'is 'and into mine, ' fur 

I respecks tha,' says 'e ; 
An' coostom agean draw'd in like a 

wind fro' far an' wide, 
And browt me the booots to be cob- 
bled fro' hafe the coontryside. 



An' theer 'e stans an' theer 'e shall 

stan' to my dying daay ; 
I 'a gotten to loov 'im agean in anoother 

kind of a waay, 
Proud on 'im, like, my lad, an' I 

keeaps 'im clean an' bright, 
Loovs 'im, an' roobs 'im, an' doosts 

'im, an' puts 'im back i' the 

light. 

XVII 

Wouldn't a pint a' sarved as well as a 

quart ? Naw doubt ; 
But I liked a bigger feller to fight wi' 

an' fowt it out. 100 

Fine an' meller 'e mun be by this, if I 

cared to taaste, 
But I moant, my lad, and I weant, fur 

I'd feal mysen clean dis- 

graaced. 

XVIII 

An' once I said to the Missis, ' My lass, 

when I cooms to die, 
Smash the bottle to smithers, the 

divil 's in 'im,' said I. 
But arter I chaanged my mind, an' if 

Sally be left aloan, 
I '11 hev 'im a-buried wi'mma an'. 

taake 'im afoor the Throan. 



Coom thou 'eer — yon laady a-steppin' 

along the streeat, 
Does n't tha knaw 'er — sa pratty, an' 

feat, an' neat, an' sweeat ? 



Look at the cloaths on 'er back, thebbe 
ammost spic-span-new, 

An' Tommy's faace be as fresh as a 
codlin wesh'd i' the dew. no 



'Ere be our Sally an' Tommy, an' we 

be a-goin to dine, 
Baacon an' taates, an' a beslings-pud- 

din' 1 an' Adam's wine ; 
But if tha wants ony grog tha mun 

goa fur it down to the Hinn, 
Fur I weant shed a drop on 'is 

blood, noa, not fur Sally's oan 

kin. 



THE REVENGE 



A BALLAD OF THE FLEET 



At Flores in the Azores Sir Richard 

Grenville lay, 
And a pinnace, like a flutter'd bird, 

came flying from far away : 
1 Spanish ships of war at sea ! we have 

sighted fifty-three S ' 
Then sware Lord Thomas Howard*. 

' 'Fore God I am no coward ; 
But I cannot meet them here, for my 

ships are out of gear, 
And the half my men are sick. I must 

fly, but follow quick. 
We are six ships of the line ; can we 

fight with fifty-three ? ' 

11 
Then spake Sir Richard Grenville : ' I 

know you are no coward ; 
You fly them for a moment to fight 

with them again. 
But I've ninety men and more that 

are lying sick ashore. 10 

I should count myself the coward if I 

left them, my Lord Howard, 
To these Inquisition dogs and the 

devildoms of Spain.' 



So Lord Howard past away with five 

ships of war that day, 
Till he melted like a cloud in the silent 

summer heaven ; 
1 A pudding made with the first milk of 
the cow after calving. 



THE REVENGE 



S8S 



But Sir Richard bore in hand all his 

sick men from the land 
Very carefully and slow, 
Men of Bideford in Devon, 
And we laid them on the ballast down 

below ; 
For we brought them all aboard, 
And they blest him in their pain, that 

they were not left to Spain, 20 
To the thumb-screw and the stake, for 

the glory of the Lord. 



He had only a hundred seamen to 

work the ship and to fight, 
And he sailed away from Flores till 

the Spaniard came in sight, 
With his huge sea-castles heaving 

upon the weather bow. 
* Shall we fight or shall we fly ? 
Good Sir Richard, tell us now, 
For to fight is but to die ! 
There '11 be little of us left by the time 

this sun be set.' 
And Sir Richard said again : ' We be 

all good English men. 
Let us bang these dogs of Seville, the 

children of the devil, 30 

For I never turn'd my back upon Don 

or devil yet.' 



Sir Richard spoke and he laugh'd, and 

we roar'd a hurrah, and so 
The little Revenge ran on sheer into 

the heart of the foe, 
With her hundred fighters on deck, 

and her ninety sick below ; 
For half of their fleet to the right and 

half to the left were seen, 
And the little Revenge ran on thro' 

the long sea-lane between. 



Thousands of their soldiers look'd 

down from their decks and 

laugh'd, 
Thousands of their seamen made mock 

at the mad little craft 
Running on and on, till delay'd 
By their mountain-like San Philip 

that, of fifteen hundred tons, 40 
And up-shadowing high above us with 

her yawning tiers of guns, 
Took the breath from our sails, and 

we stay'd. 



And while now the great San Philip 
hung above us like a cloud 

Whence the thunderbolt will fall 

Long and loud, 

Four galleons drew away 

From the Spanish fleet that day, 

And two upon the larboard and two 
upon the starboard lay, 

And the battle -thunder broke from 
them. all. 

VIII 

But anon the great San Philip, she 

bethought herself and went, 50 
Having that within her womb that 

had left her ill content ; 
And the rest they came aboard us, and 

they fought us hand to hand, 
For a dozen times they came with 

their pikes and musqueteers, 
And a dozen times we shook 'em off 

as a dog that shakes his ears 
When he leaps from the water to the 

land. 



And the sun went down, and the stars 

came out far over the summer 

sea, 
But never a moment ceased the fight 

of the one and the fifty-three. 
Ship after ship, the whole night long, 

their high -built galleons came, 
Ship after ship, the whole night long, 

with her battle- thunder and 

flame ; 
Ship after ship, the whole night long, 

drew back with her dead and 

her shame. 60 

For some were sunk and many were 

shatter'd, and so could fight us 

no more — 
God of battles, was ever a battle like 

this in the world before ? 



For he said, * Fight on ! fight on ! ' 
Tho' his vessel was all but a wreck ; 
And it chanced that, when half of 

the short summer night was 

gone, 
With a grisly wound to be drest he 

had left the deck, 
But a bullet struck him that was 

dressing it suddenly dead, 



5 86 



BALLADS AND OTHER POEMS 



And himself he was wounded again in 

the side and the head, 
And he said, ' Fight on ! fight on ! ' 



And the night went down, and the sun 

smiled out far over the summer 

sea, 70 

And the Spanish fleet with broken 

sides lay round us all in a ring ; 
But they dared not touch us again, for 

they fear'd that we still could 

sting, 
So they watch' d what the end would 

be. 
And we had not fought them in vain, 
But in perilous plight were we, 
Seeing forty of our poor hundred were 

slain, 
And half of the rest of us maim'd for 

life 
In the crash of the cannonades and the 

desperate strife ; 
And the sick men down in the hold 

were most of them stark and 

cold, 
And the pikes were all broken or bent, 

and the powder was all of it 

spent ; 80 

And the masts and the rigging were 

lying over the side ; 
But Sir Richard cried in his English 

pride : 
' We have fought such a fight for a 

day and a night 
As may never be fought again ! 
We have won great glory, my men ! 
And a day less or more 
At sea or ashore, 
We die — does it matter when ? 
Sink me the ship, Master Gunner — 

sink her, split her in twain ! 
Fall into the hands of God, not into 

the hands of Spain ! ' 



90 



XII 



And the gunner said, ' Ay, ay,' but 

the seamen made reply : 
' We have children, we have wives, 
And the Lord hath spared our lives. 
We will make the Spaniard promise, 

if we yield, to let us go ; 
We shall live to fight again and to 

strike another blow.' 
And the lion there lay dying, and 

they yielded to the foe. 



And the stately Spanish men to their 

flagship bore him then. 
Where they laid him by the mast, old 

Sir Richard caught at last, 
And they praised him to his face with 

their courtly foreign grace ; 
But he rose upon their decks, and he 

cried : 100 

' I have fought for Queen and Faith 

like a valiant man and true ; 
I have only done my duty as a man is 

bound to do. 
With a joyful spirit I Sir Richard 

Grenville die ! ' 
And he fell upon their decks, and he 

died. 



And they stared at the dead that had 

been so valiant and true, 
And had holden the power and glory 

of Spain so cheap 
That he dared her with one little ship 

and his English few ; 
Was he devil or man ? He was devil 

for aught they knew, 
But they sank his body with honor 

down into the deep, 
And they mann'd the Revenge with a 

swarthier alien crew, no 

And away she sail'd with her loss and 

long'd for her own ; 
When a wind from the lands they had 

ruin'd awoke from sleep, 
And the water began to heave and 

the weather to moan, 
And or ever that evening ended a 

great gale blew, 
And a wave like the wave that is 

raised by an earthquake grew, 
Till it smote on their hulls and their 

sails and their masts and their 

flags, 
And the whole sea plunged and fell on 

the shot-shatter'd navy of Spain, 
And the little Revenge herself went 

down by the island crags 
To be lost evermore in the main. 



THE SISTERS 



and 



They have left the doors ajar; 

by their clash, 
And prelude on the keys, I know the 

song, 



THE SISTERS 



587 



Their favorite — which I call ' 

Tables Turn'd/ 
Evelyn begins it, ' diviner Air.' 



The 



EVELYN 

diviner Air, 

Thro' the heat, the drowth, the dust, the 

glare, 
Far from out the west in shadowing 

showers, 
Over all the meadow baked and bare, 
Making fresh and fair 
All the bowers and the flowers, 10 

Fainting flowers, faded bowers, 
Over all this weary world of ours, 
Breathe, diviner Air! 

A sweet voice that — you scarce could 

better that ! 
Now follows Edith echoing Evelyn. 

EDITH 

O diviner light, 

Thro' the cloud that roofs our noon with 

night, 
Thro' the blotting mist, the blinding 

showers, 
Far from out a sky for ever bright, 19 
Over all the woodland's flooded bowers, 
Over all the meadow's drowning flowers, 
Over all this ruin'd world of ours, 
Break, diviner light ! 

Marvellously like, their voices — and 

themselves ! 
Tho' one is somewhat deeper than the 

other, 
As one is somewhat graver than the 

other — 
Edith than Evelyn. Your good uncle, 

whom 
You count the father of your fortune, 

longs 
For this alliance. Let me ask you then, 
Which voice most takes you ? for I do 

not doubt, 30 

Being a watchful parent, you are taken 
With one or other; tho' sometimes I 

fear 
You may be nickering, fluttering in a 

doubt 
Between the two — which must not 

be — which might 
Be death to one. They both are beau- 
tiful ; 
Evelyn is gayer, wittier, prettier, says 
The common voice, if one may trust 

it, she ? 



No ! but the paler and the graver, 
Edith. 

Woo her and gain her then ; no waver- 
ing, boy ! 

The graver is perhaps the one for you 

Who jest and laugh so easily and so 
well. 4 i 

For love will go by contrast, as by 
likes. 

No sisters ever prized each other 

more. 
Not so ; their mother and her sister 

loved 
More passionately still. 

But that my best 
And oldest friend, your uncle, wishes 

it, 
And that I know you worthy every 

way 
To be my son, I might, perchance, be 

loath 
To part them, or part from them ; and 

yet one 
Should marry, or all the broad lands 

in your view 50 

From this bay-window — which our 

house has held 
Three hundred years — will pass col- 
laterally. 

My father with a child on either 

knee, 
A hand upon the head of either child, 
Smoothing their locks, as golden as 

his own 
Were silver, ' get them wedded ' would 

he say. 
And once my prattling Edith ask'd 

him ' why ? ' 
' Ay, why ? ' said he, ' for why should 

I go lame ? ' 
Then told them of his wars, and of 

his wound. 
For see — this wine — the grape from 

whence it flow'd 60 

Was blackening on the slopes of Por- 
tugal, 
When that brave soldier, down the 

terrible ridge 
Plunged in the last fierce charge at 

Waterloo, 
And caught the laming bullet. He 

left me this, 
Which yet retains a memory of its 

youth, 



5 88 



BALLADS AND OTHER POEMS 



As I of mine, and my first passion. 

Come ! 
Here 's to your happy union with my 

child ! 

Yet must you change your name — 

no fault of mine ! 
You say that you can do it as willingly 
As birds make ready for their bridal- 
time 70 
By change of feather ; for all that, 

my boy, 
Some birds are sick and sullen when 

they moult. 
An old and worthy name ! but mine 

that stirr'd 
Among our civil wars and earlier too 
Among the Roses, the more venerable. 
/ care not for a name — no fault of 

mine. 
Once more — a happier marriage than 

my own ! 

You see yon Lombard poplar on 

the plain. 
The highway running by it leaves a 

breadth 
Of sward to left and right, where, 

long ago, 80 

One bright May morning in a world 

of song, 
I lay at leisure, watching overhead 
The aerial poplar wave, an amber 

spire. 

I dozed ; I woke. An open landaulet 

Whirl' d by, which, after it had past 
me, show'd 

Turning my way, the loveliest face 
on earth. 

The face of one there sitting oppo- 
site, 

On whom I brought a strange unhap- 
piness, 

That time I did not see. 

Love at first sight 
May seem — with goodly rhyme and 

reason for it — 90 

Possible — at first glimpse, and for a 

face 
Gone in a moment — strange. Yet 

once, when first 
I came on lake Llanberris in the dark, 
A moonless night with storm — one 

lightning-fork 



Flash' d out the lake ; and tho' I loi- 
ter' d there 

The full day after, yet in retrospect 

That less than momentary thunder- 
sketch 

Of lake and mountain conquers all the 
day. 

The sun himself has limn'd the face 
for me. 

Not quite so quickly, no, nor half as 
well. 100 

For look you here — the shadows are 
too deep, 

And like the critic's blurring comment 
make 

The veriest beauties of the work ap- 
pear 

The darkest faults ; the sweet eyes 
frown, the lips 

Seem but a gash. My sole memorial 

Of Edith — no, the other, — both in- 
deed. 

So that bright face was flash'd thro' 

sense and soul 
And by the poplar vanish' d — to be 

found 
Long after, as it seem'd, beneath the 

tall 
Tree-bowers, and those long-sweeping 

beechen boughs no 

Of our New Forest. I was there 

alone. 
The phantom of the whirling landaulet 
For ever past me by ; when one quick 

peal 
Of laughter drew me thro' the glim- 
mering glades 
Down to the snowlike sparkle of a 

cloth 
On fern and foxglove. Lo, the face 

again, 
My Rosalind in this Arden — Edith — 

all 
One bloom of youth, health, beauty, 

happiness, 
And moved to merriment at a passing 

jest. 

There one of those about her know- 
ing me 120 

Call'd me to join them ; so with these 
I spent 

What seem'd my crowning hour, my 
day of days. 



THE SISTERS 



S89 



I woo'd her then, nor unsuccessfully, 
The worse for her, for me ! Was I 

content ? 
Ay — no, not quite ; for now and then 

I thought 
Laziness, vague love-longings, the 

bright May, 
Had made a heated haze to magnify 
The charm of Edith — that a man's 

ideal 
Is high in heaven, and lodged with 

Plato's God, 
Not findable here — content, and not 

content, 130 

In some such fashion as a man may be 
That having had the portrait of his 

friend 
Drawn by an artist, looks at it, and 



1 Good ! very like ! not altogether he.' 

As yet I had not bound myself by 

words, 
Only, believing I loved Edith, made 
Edith love me. Then came the day 

when I, 
Flattering myself that all my doubts 

were fools 
Born of the fool this Age that doubts 

of all — 
Not I that day of Edith's love or 

mine — 140 

Had braced my purpose to declare 

myself. 
I stood upon the stairs of Paradise. 
The golden gates would open at a 

word. 
I spoke it — told her of my passion, 

seen 
And lost and found again, had got so 

far, 
Had caught her hand, her eyelids fell 

— I heard 
"Wheels, and a noise of welcome at the 

doors — 
On a sudden after two Italian years 
Had set the blossom of her health 

again, 
The younger sister, Evelyn, enter'd — 

there, 150 

There was the face, and altogether she. 
The mother fell about the daughter's 

neck, 
The sisters closed in one another's arms, 
Their people throng' d about them from 

the hall, 



And in the thick of question and 

reply 
I fled the house, driven by one angel 

face, 
And all the Furies. 

I was bound to her ; 
I could not free myself in honor — 

bound 
Not by the sounded letter of the word, 
But counter-pressures of the yielded 

hand 160 

That timorously and faintly echoed 

mine, 
Quick blushes, the sweet dwelling of 

her eyes 
Upon me when she thought I did not 

see — 
Were these not bonds ? nay, nay, but 

could I wed her 
Loving the other? do her that great 

wrong ? 
Had I not dream'd I loved her yester- 

morn? 
Had I not known where Love, at first 

a fear, 
Grew after marriage to full height and 

form ? 
Yet after marriage, that mock-sister 

there — 
Brother-in-law — the fiery nearness of 

it — 170 

Unlawful and disloyal brotherhood — 
What end but darkness could ensue 

from this 
For all the three ? So Love and Honor 

jarr'd, 
Tho' Love and Honor join'd to raise 

the full 
High-tide of doubt that sway'd me up 

and down 
Advancing nor retreating. 

Edith wrote : 
' My mother bids me ask ' — I did not 

tell you — 
A widow with less guile than many a 

child. 
God help the wrinkled children that 

are Christ's 
As well as the plump cheek — she 

wrought us harm, 180 

Poor soul, not knowing ! — ' Are you 

ill ? ' — so ran 
The letter — ' you have not been here 

of late. 



59° 



BALLADS AND OTHER POEMS 



You will not find me here. At last I 

go 
On that long-promised visit to the 

North. 
I told your wayside story to my mother 
And Evelyn. She remembers you. 

Farewell. 
Pray come and see my mother. Almost 

blind 
With ever-growing cataract, yet she 

thinks 
She sees you when she hears. Again 

farewell/ 

Cold words from one I had hoped to 

warm so far i 9 o 

That I could stamp my image on her 

heart ! 
' Pray come and see my mother, and 

farewell/ 
Cold, but as welcome as free airs of 

heaven 
After a dungeon's closeness. Selfish, 

strange ! 
What dwarfs are men ! my strangled 

vanity 
Utter'd a stifled cry — to have vext 

myself 
And all in vain for her — cold heart or 

none — 
No bride for me. Yet so my path was 

clear 
To win the sister. 

Whom I woo'd and won. 
For Evelyn knew not of my former 

suit, 200 

Because the simple mother work'd 

upon 
By Edith pray'd me not to whisper of 

it. 
And Edith would be bridesmaid on 

the day. 
But on that day, not being all at 

ease, 
I from the altar glancing back upon 

her, 
Before the first ' I will ' was utter'd, 

saw 
The bridesmaid pale, statue-like, pas- 
sionless — 
1 No harm, no harm ' — I turn'd again, 

and placed 
My ring upon the finger of my bride. 

So, when we parted, Edith spoke no 
word, 210 



She wept no tear, but round my Eve- 
lyn clung 
In utter silence for so long, I thought, 
'What, will she never set her sister 
free ? ' 

We left her, happy each in each, 
and then, 

As tho' the happiness of each in each 

Were not enough, must fain have tor- 
rents, lakes, 

Hills, the great things of Nature and 
the fair, 

To lift us as it were from common- 
place, 

And help us to our joy. Better have 
sent 

Our Edith thro' the glories of the earth, 

To change with her horizon, if true 
Love 221 

Were not his own imperial all-in- ail. 

Far off we went. My God, I would 
not live 
Save that I think this gross hard- 
seeming world 
Is our misshaping vision of the Powers 
Behind the world, that make our griefs 
our gains. 

For on the dark night of our mar- 
riage-day 

The great tragedian, that had quench' d 
herself 

In that assumption of the bridesmaid 
— she 

That loved me — our true Edith — her 
brain broke 230 

With over-acting, till she rose and 
fled 

Beneath a pitiless rush of autumn rain 

To the deaf church — to be let in — to 
pray 

Before that altar — so I think ; and 
there 

They found her beating the hard Pro- 
testant doors. 

She died and she was buried ere we 
knew. 

I learnt it first. I had to speak. 

At once 
The bright quick smile of Evelyn, 

that had sunn'd 
The morning of our marriage, past 

away. 



THE SISTERS 



59i 



And on our home -return the daily 

want 240 

Of Edith in the house, the garden, 

still 
Haunted us like her ghost ; and by 

and by, 
Either from that necessity for talk 
Which lives with blindness, or plain 

innocence 
Of nature, or desire that her lost 

child 
Should earn from both the praise of 

heroism, 
The mother broke her promise to the 

dead, 
And told the living daughter with 

what love 
Edith had welcomed my brief wooing 

of her, 



And all her sweet self-sacrifice and 
death. 250 

Henceforth that mystic bond be- 
twixt the twins — 

Did I not tell you they were twins ? — 
prevail'd 

So far that no caress could win my 
wife 

Back to that passionate answer of full 
heart 

I had from her at first. Not that her 
love, 

Tho' scarce as great as Edith's power 
of love, 

Had lessen' d, but the mother's garru- 
lous wail 

For ever woke the unhappy Past 
again, 




1 We left her, happy each in each' 



59 2 



BALLADS AND OTHER POEMS 



Till that dead bridesmaid, meant to be 

my bride, 
Put forth cold hands between us, and 

I fear'd 260 

The very fountains of her life were 

chill'd ; 
So took her thence, and brought her 

here, and here 
She bore a child, whom reverently we 

call'd 
Edith ; and in the second year was 

born 
A second — this I named from her 

own self, 
Evelyn; then two weeks — no more 

— she join'd, 
In and beyond the grave, that one she 

loved. 
Now in this quiet of declining life, 
Thro' dreams by night and trances of 

the day, 
The sisters glide about me hand in 

hand, 270 

Both beautiful alike, nor can I tell 
One from the other, no, nor care to 

tell 
One from the other, only know they 

come, 
They smile upon me, till, remember- 
ing all 
The love they both have borne me, 

and the love 
I bore them both — divided as I am 
From either by the stillness of the 

grave — 
I know not which of these I love the 

best. 

But you love Edith ; and her own 

true eyes 
Are traitors to her; our quick Eve- 
lyn — 280 
The merrier, prettier, wittier, as they 

talk, 
And not without good reason, my 

good son — 
Is yet untouch'd. And I that hold 

them both 
Dearest of all things — well, I am not 

sure — 
But if there lie a preference either 

way, 
And in the rich vocabulary of Love 
' Most dearest ' be a true superlative — 
I think I likewise love your Edith 

most. 



THE VILLAGE WIFE ; OR, THE 
ENTAIL 1 



'Ouse-keepee, sent tha, my lass, fur 
new Squire coom'd last night. 

Butter an' heggs — yis — y is. I '11 goa 
wi' tha back ; all right ; 

Butter I warrants be prime, an' I war- 
rants the heggs be as well, 

Haf e a pint o' milk runs out when ya 
breaks the shell. 

11 
Sit thysen down fur a bit ; hev a glass 

o' cowslip wine ! 
I liked the owd Squire an' 'is gells as 

thaw they was gells o' mine, 
Fur then we was all es one, the Squire 

an' 'is darters an' me, 
Hall but Miss Annie, the heldest, I 

niver not took to she. 
But Nelly, the last of the cletch, 2 I 

liked 'er the fust on 'em all, 
Fur hoffens we talkt o' my darter es 

died o' the fever at fall ; 10 

An' I thowt 't wur the will o' the Lord, 

but Miss Annie she said it wur 

draains, 
Fur she hed n't naw coomfut in 'er, 

an' arn'd naw thanks fur 'er 

paains. 
Eh ! thebbe all wi' the Lord, my chil- 

der, I han't gotten none ! 
Sa new Squire 's coom'd wi' 'is taail in 

'is 'and, an' owd Squire 's gone. 



in 



-tha 



Fur 'staate be i' taail, my lass - 

dosn' knaw what that be ? 
But I knaws the law, I does, for the 

lawyer ha towd it to me. 
' When theer 's naw 'ead to a 'Ouse by 

the fault o' that ere maale — 
The gells they counts fur nowt, and 

the next 1111 he taakes the taail.' 

IV 

What be the next un like ? can tha 
tell ony harm on 'im, lass ? — 

Naay sit down — naw 'urry — sa 
cowd ! — hev another glass ! 20 

Straange an' cowd fur the time ! we 
may happen a fall o' snaw — 

1 See note on pronunciation, p. 582. 

2 A brood of chickens. 



THE VILLAGE WIFE 



593 



Not es I cares fur to hear ony harm, 

but I likes to knaw. 
An' I oaps es 'e beant boooklarn'd; but 

'e dosn' not coom fro' the shere ; 
We 'd anew o' that wi' the Squire, an' 

we haates boooklarnin' ere. 



Fur Squire wur a Varsity scholard, an 

niver lookt arter the land — 
Whoats or turmuts or taates — 'e'd 

hallus a boook i' 'is 'and, 
Hallus aloan wi' 'is boooks, thaw nigh 

upo' seventy year. 
An' boooks, what's boooks? thou 

knaws thebbe neyther 'ere nor 

theer. 



An' the gells, they hed n't naw taails, 

an' the lawyer he towd it me 
That 'is taail were soa tied up es he 

could n't cut down a tree ! 30 
' Drat the trees,' says I, to be sewer I 

haates 'em, my lass, 
Fur we puts the muck o' the land, an' 

they sucks the muck fro' the 

grass. 

VII 

An' Squire wur hallus a-smilin', an' 

gied to the tramps goin' by — 
An' all o' the wust i' the parish — wi' 

hoffens a drop in 'is eye. 
An' ivry darter o' Squire's hed her 

awn ridin-erse to 'ersen, 
An' they rampaged about wi' their 

grooms, an' wus 'untin' arter 

the men, 
An' hallus a-dallackt 1 an' dizen'd out, 

an' a-buyin' new cloathes, 
While 'e sit like a great glimmer- 
gowk 2 wi' 'is glasses athurt 'is 

noase, 
• An' 'is noase sa grufted wi' snuff as it 

could n't be scroob'd awaay, 
Fur 'atween 'is readin' an' writin' 'e 

sniff t up a box in a daily, 40 
An' 'e niver, runn'd arter the fox, nor 

arter the birds wi' 'is gun, 
An' 'e niver not shot one 'are, but 'e 

leaved it to Charlie 'is son, 
An' 'e niver not fish'd 'is awn ponds, 

but Charlie 'e cotch'd the pike, 

1 Overdrest in gay colors. 

2 Owl. 



Fur 


'e 


But I 


An' 


'e 


An' 


'e 


An' 


'e 


An' 


'e 


An' 


'e 


But 


'e 


An' 


'e 



warn't not burn to the land, an' 

'e did n't take kind to it like ; 

ears es 'e 'd gie fur a ho wry * 

owd book thutty pound an' 

moor, 

'd wrote an' owd book, his awn 

sen, sa I knaw'd es'e'd coom 

to be poor ; 

gied — I be fear'd fur to tell tha 

'ow much — fur an owd scratted 

stoan, 

digg'd up a loomp i' the land 

an' 'e got a brown pot an' a 

boan, 

bowt owd money, es wouldn't 

goa, wi' good gowd o' the 

Queen, 

bowt little statutes all-naakt 

an' which was a shaame to be 

seen, 

niver loookt ower a bill, nor 'e 

niver not seed to owt, 51 

niver knawd nowt but boooks, 

an' boobks, as thou knaws, beant 

nowt. 

VIII 

But owd Squire's laady es long es she 

lived she kep' 'em all clear, 
Thaw es long es she lived I niver hed 

none of 'er darters 'ere ; 
But arter she died we was all es one, 

the childer an' me, 
An' sarvints runn'd in an' out, an' 

offens we hed 'em to tea. 
Lawk ! 'ow I laugh'd when the lasses 

'ud talk o' their Missis's waays, 
An' the Missisis talk'd o' the lasses. — 

I '11 tell tha some o' these daay s. 
Hoanly Miss Annie were saw stuck 

oop, like 'er mother afoor — 
'Er an' 'er blessed darter — they niver 

derken'd my door. 60 



An' Squire 'e smiled an' 'e smiled till 

'e 'd gotten a fright at last, 
An' 'e calls fur 'is sod, fur the 'turney's 

letters they f oiler' d sa fast ; 
But Squire wur afear'd o' 'is son, an' 

'e says to 'im, meek as a mouse, 
'Lad, thou mun cut off thy taail, or 

the gells 'uli goa to the 'Ouse, 
Fur I finds es I be that i' debt, es I 

'oaps es thou '11 'elp me a bit, 
1 Filthy. 



594 



BALLADS AND OTHER POEMS 



An' if thou '11 'gree to cut off thy taail 
I may saave mysen yit.' 



But Charlie 'e sets back 'is ears, an' 'e 

swears, an' 'e says to 'im, 'JSToa. 
I've gotten the 'staate by the taail an' 

be dang'd if I iver let goa ! 
Coom! coom! feyther,' 'e says, 'why 

should n't thy boooks be sowd ! 
I hears es soom o' thy boooks mebbe 

worth their weight i' gowd.' 70 



Heaps an' heaps o' boooks, I ha' seed 

'em, belong'd to the Squire, 
But the lasses 'ed teard out leaves i' 

the middle to kindle the fire ; 
Sa moast on 'is owd big boooks f etch'd 

nigh to nowt at the saale, 
And Squire were at Charlie agean to 

git 'im to cut off 'is taail. 



Ya wouldn't find Charlie's likes — 'e 

were that outdacious at 'oam, 
Not thaw ya went fur to raake out 

hell wi' a small- tooth coamb — 
Droonk wi' the Quoloty's wine, an' 

droonk wi' the farmer's aale, 
Mad wi' the lasses an' all — an' 'e 

wouldn't cut off the taail. 



Thou 's coom'd oop by the beck ; and 

a thurn be a-grawin' theer, 
I niver ha seed it sa white wi' the 

maay es I seed it to-year — 80 
Theerbouts Charlie joompt — and it 

gied me a scare tother night, 
Fur I thowt it wur Charlie's ghoast i' 

the derk, fur it loookt sa white. 
1 Billy, ' says ' e, ' he v a j oomp ! ' — thaw 

the banks o' the beck be sa high, 
Fur he ca'd 'is 'erse Billy-rough-un, 

thaw niver a hair wur awry ; 
But Billy fell bakkuds o' Charlie, an' 

Charlie 'e brok 'is neck, 
Sa theer wur a hend o' the taail, fur 

'e lost 'is taail i' the beck. 



Sa 'is taail wur lost an' 'is boooks wur 
gone an' 'is boy wur dead, 

An' Squire 'e smiled an' 'e smiled, but 
'e niver not lift oop 'is 'ead. 



Hallus a soft un, Squire ! an"e smiled, 
fur 'e hedn't naw friend, 

Sa feyther an' son was buried togither, 
an' this wur the hend. 90 

xv 

An' Parson as hesn't the call, nor the 

mooney, but hes the pride, 
'E reads of a sewer an' sartan 'oap o' 

the tother side ; 
But I beant that sewer es the Lord, how- 

siver they praay'd an' praay'd, 
Lets them inter 'eaven easy es leaves 

their debts to be paaid. 
Siver the mou'ds rattled down upo' 

poor owd Squire i' the wood, 
An' I cried along wi' the gells, fur 

they weant niver coom to naw 

good. 

XVI 

Fur Molly the long un she walkt 

awaay wi' a hoflicer lad, 
An' nawbody 'eard on 'er sin', sa o' 

coorse she be gone to the bad ! 
An' Lucy wur laame o' one leg, sweet- 

'arts she niver 'ed none — 
Straange an' unheppen 1 Miss Lucy ! 

we naamed her 'Dot an' gaw 

one ! ' 100 

An' Hetty wur weak i' the hattics, 

wi'out ony harm i' the legs, 
An' the fever 'ed baaked Jinny's 'ead 

as bald as one o' them heggs, 
An' Nelly wur up fro' the craadle as 

big i' the mouth as a cow, 
An' saw she mun hammergrate, 2 lass, 

or she weant git a maate ony- 

how ! 
An' es for Miss Annie es call'd me 

afoor my awn foalks to my 

faace, 
' A hignorant village wife es 'ud hev 

to be larn'd her awn plaace,' 
Hes fur Miss Hannie the heldest hes . 

now be a-grawin' sa howd, 
I knaws that mooch o' shea, es it beant 

not fit to be towd ! 

XVII 

Sa I did n't not taake it kindly ov owd 

Miss Annie to saay 
Es I should be talkin' agean 'em, es 

soon es they went awaay, no 

1 Ungainly, awkward. 

2 Emigrate. 






IN THE CHILDREN'S HOSPITAL 



595 



Fur lawks! 'ow I cried when they 

went, an' our Nelly she gied 

me 'er 'and, 
Fur I 'd ha done owt for the Squire an' 

'is gells es belong'd to the land ; 
Boooks, es I said afoor, thebbe ney- 

ther 'ere nor theer ! 
But I sarved 'em wi' butter an' heggs 

for huppuds o' twenty year. 

XVIII 

An' they hallus paaid what I hax'd, 

sa I hallus deal'd wi' the Hall, 
i\.n' they knaw'd what butter wur, 

an' they knaw'd what a hegg 

wur an' all ; 
Hugger-mugger they lived, but they 

was n't that easy to please, 
Till I gied 'em Hinjian curn, an' they 

laaid big heggs es tha seeas ; 
An' I niver puts saame 1 i' my butter 

— they does it at Willis's farm ; 
Taaste another drop o' the wine — 

tweant do tha naw harm. 120 



Sa new Squire 's coom'd wi' 'is taail in 

'is 'and, an' owd Squire 's gone ; 
I heard 'im a roomlin' by, but arter 

my night-cap wur on ; 
Sa I han't clapt eyes on 'im yit, fur 

he coom'd last night sa laate — 
Pluksh ! ! ! 2 the hens i' the peas ! why 

did n't tha hesp the gaate ? 



IN THE CHILDREN'S HOSPITAL 



EMMIE 



Our doctor had call'd in another, I 

never had seen him before, 
But he sent a chill to my heart when 

I saw him come in at the door, 
Fresh from the surgery- schools of 

France and of other lands — 
Harsh red hair, big voice, big chest, 

big merciless hands ! 
Wonderful cures he had done, O, yes, 

but they said too of him 
He was happier using the knife than 

in trying to save the limb, 

1 Lard. 

2 A cry accompanied by a clapping of 
hands to scare trespassing fowl. 



And that I can well believe, for he 

look'd so coarse and so red, 
I could think he was one of those who 

would break their jests on the 

dead, 
And mangle the living dog that had 

loved him and fawn'd at his 

knee — 
Drench' d with the hellish oorali — that 

ever such things should be ! 10 



Here was a boy — I am sure that some 

of our children would die 
But for the voice of love, and the 

smile, and the comforting eye — 
Here was a boy in the ward, every 

bone seem'd out of its place — 
Caught in a mill and crush'd — it was 

all but a hopeless case : 
And he handled him gently enough ; 

but his voice and his face were 

not kind, 
And it was but a hopeless case, he had 

seen it and made up his mind, 
And he said to me roughly, ' The lad 

will need little more of your 

care.' 
'All the more need,' I told him, 'to 

seek the Lord Jesus in prayer ; 
They are all His children here, and I 

pray for them all as my own.' 
But he turn'd to me, ' Ay, good wo- 
man, can prayer set a broken 

bone ? ' 20 

Then he mutter'd half to himself, but 

I know that I heard him say, 
'All very well — but the good Lord 

Jesus has had his day.' 



Had ? has it come ? It has only 
dawn'd. It will come by and 

by- 

O, how could I serve in the wards if 

the hope of the world were a 

lie? 
How could I bear with the sights and 

the loathsome smells of disease 
But that He said, 'Ye do it to me, 

when ye do it to these ' ? 

IV 

So he went. And we past to this 
ward where the younger chil- 
dren are laid. 



59 6 



BALLADS AND OTHER POEMS 



Here is the cot of our orphan, our 
darling, our meek little maid ; 

Empty, you see, just now ! We have 
lost her who loved her so much — 

Patient of pain tho' as quick as a sen- 
sitive plant to the touch. 30 

Hers was the prettiest prattle, it often 
moved me to tears, 

Hers was the gratef ullest heart I have 
found in a child of her years — 

Nay you remember our Emmie; you 
used to send her the flowers. 

How she would smile at 'em, play 
with 'em, talk to' em hours after 
hours ! 

They that can wander at will where the 
works of the Lord are reveal' d 

Little guess what joy can be got from 
a cowslip out of the field ; 

Flowers to these ' spirits in prison ' are 
all they can know of the spring, 

They freshen and sweeten the wards 
like the waft of an angel's wing. 

And she lay with a flower in one hand 
and her thin hands crost on her 
breast — 

Wan, but as pretty as heart can de- 
sire, and we thought her at rest, 

Quietly sleeping — so quiet, our doc- 
tor said, ' Poor little dear, 41 

Nurse, I must do it to-morrow ; she'll 
never live thro' it, I fear.' 



I walk'd with our kindly old doctor as 
far as the head of the stair, 

Then I return'd to the ward ; the child 
didn't see I was there. 



Never since I was nurse had I been so 

grieved and so vext ! 
Emmie had heard him. Softly she 

call'd from her cot to the next, 
1 He says I shall never live thro' it ; 

Annie, what shall I do V 
Annie consider'd. 'If I,' said the 

wise little Annie, ' was you, 
I should cry to the dear Lord Jesus to 

help me, for, Emmie, you see, 
It's all in the picture there: ''Little 

children should come to me " ' — 
Meaning the print that you gave us, I 

find that it always can please 51 
Our children, the dear Lord Jesus with 

children about his knees. 



' Yes, and I will,' said Emmie, ' but 

then if I call to the Lord, 
How should he know that it 's me ? 

such a lot of beds in the ward ! ' 
That was a puzzle for Annie. Again 

she consider'd and said : 
' Emmie, you put out your arms, and 

you leave 'em outside on the 

bed — 
The Lord has so much to see to ! but, 

Emmie, you tell it him plain, 
It 's the little girl with her arms lying 

out on the counterpane.' 

VII 

I had sat three nights by the child — 

I could not watch her for four — 
My brain had begun to reel — I felt I 

could do it no more. 60 

That was my sleeping-night, but I 

thought that it never would 

pass. 
There was a thunderclap once, and a 

clatter of hail on the glass, 
And there was a phantom cry that I 

heard as I tost about, 
The motherless bleat of a lamb in the 

storm and the darkness without ; 
My sleep was broken besides with 

dreams of the dreadful knife 
And fears for our delicate Emmie who 

scarce would escape with her 

life; 
Then in the gray of the morning it 

seem'd she stood by me and 

smiled, 
And the doctor came at his hour, and 

we went to see to the child. 

VIII 

He had brought his ghastly tools ; we 

believed her asleep again — 
Her dear, long, lean, little arms lying 

out on the counterpane — 70 
Say that His day is done ! Ah, why 

should we care what they say ? 
The Lord of the children had heard 

her, and Emmie had past away. 



DEDICATORY POEM TO THE 
PRINCESS ALICE 

Dead Princess, living Power, if that 

which lived 
True life live on — and if the fatal kiss, 



THE DEFENCE OF LUCKNOW 



597 



Born of true life and love, divorce 

thee not 
From earthly love and life — if what 

we call 
The spirit flash not all at once from 

out 
This shadow into Substance — then 

perhaps 
The mellow' d murmur of the people's 

praise 
From thine own State, and all our 

breadth of realm, 
Where Love and Longing dress thy 

deeds in light, 
Ascends to thee ; and this March 

morn that sees 
Thy Soldier-brother's bridal orange- 
bloom 
Break thro' the yews and cypress of 

thy grave, 
And thine Imperial mother smile 

again, 
May send one ray to thee I and who 

can tell — 
Thou — England's England - loving 

daughter — thou 
Dying so English thou wouldst have 

her flag 
Borne on thy coffin — where is he can 

swear 
But that some broken gleam from our 

poor earth 
May touch thee, while, remembering 

thee, I lay 
At thy pale feet this ballad of the 

deeds 
Of England, and her banner in the 

East? 



THE DEFENCE OF LUCKNOW 



Banner of England, not for a sea- 
son, O banner of Britain, hast 
thou 

Floated in conquering battle or flapt 
to the battle-cry ! 

Never with mightier glory than when 
we had rear'd thee on high 

Flying at top of the roofs in the 
ghastly siege of Lucknow — 

Shot thro' the staff or the halyard, but 
ever we raised thee anew, 

And ever upon the topmost roof our 
banner of England blew. 



Frail were the works that defended 

the hold that we held with our 

lives — 
Women and children among us, God 

help them, our children and 

wives ! 
Hold it we might — and for fifteen 

days or for twenty at most. 
'Never surrender, I charge you, but 

every man die at his post ! ' 10 
Voice of the dead whom we loved, 

our Lawrence the best of the 

brave ; 
Cold were his brows when we kiss'd 

him — we laid him that night in 

his grave. 
' Every man die at his post ! ' and 

there hail'd on our houses and 

halls 
Death from their rifle-bullets, and 

death from their cannon-balls, 
Death in our innermost chamber, and 

death at our slight barricade, 
Death while we stood with the mus- 
ket, and death while we stoopt 

to the spade, 
Death to the dying, and wounds to 

the wounded, for often there 

fell, 
Striking the hospital wall, crashing 

thro' it, their shot and their 

shell, 
Death — for their spies were among 

us, their marksmen were told of 

our best, 
So that the brute bullet broke thro' 

the brain that could think for 

the rest ; 20 

Bullets would sing by our foreheads, 

and bullets would rain at our 

feet — 
Fire from ten thousand at once of the 

rebels that girdled us round — 
Death at the glimpse of a finger from 

over the breadth of a street, 
Death from the heights of the mosque 

and the palace, and death in the 

ground ! 
Mine ? yes, a mine ! Countermine ! 

down, down ! and creep thro' 

the hole ! 
Keep the revolver in hand ! you can 

hear him — the murderous mole ! 
Quiet, ah ! quiet — wait till the point 

of the pickaxe be thro' ! 



598 



BALLADS AND OTHER POEMS 



Click with the pick, coming nearer 
and nearer again than before — 

Now let it speak, and you fire, and 
the dark pioneer is no more ; 

And ever upon the topmost roof our 
banner of England blew ! 30 



Ay, but the foe sprung his mine many 

times, and it chanced on a day 
Soon as the blast of that underground 

thunder- clap echo'd away, 
Dark thro' the smoke and the sulphur 

like so many fiends in their 

hell — 
Cannon-shot, musket-shot, volley on 

volley, and yell upon yell — 
Fiercely on all the defences our myriad 

enemy fell. 
What have they done ? where is it ? 

Out yonder. Guard the Redan ! 
Storm at the Water-gate ! storm at the 

Bailey-gate ! storm, and it ran 
Surging and swaying all round us, as 

ocean on every side 
Plunges and heaves at a bank that is 

daily drown'd by the tide — 39 
So many thousands that, if they be 

bold enough, who shall escape ? 
Kill or be kilPd, live or die, they shall 

know we are soldiers and men ! 
Ready ! take aim at their leaders — 

their masses are gapp'd with 

our grape — 
Backward they reel like the wave, like 

the wave flinging forward 

again, 
Flying and foil'd at the last by the 

handful they could not subdue ; 
And ever upon the topmost roof our 

banner of England blew. 



Handful of men as we were, we were 

English in heart and in limb, 
Strong with the strength of the race to 

command, to obey, to endure, 
Each of us fought as if hope for the 

garrison hung but on him ; 
Still — could we watch at all points ? 

we were every day fewer and 

fewer. 
There was a whisper among us, but 

only a whisper that past: 50 
'Children and wives — if the tigers 

leap into the fold unawares — 



Everyman die at his post — and the 
foe may outlive us at last — 

Better to fall by the hands that they 
love, than to fall into theirs ! ' 

Roar upon roar in a moment two mines 
by the enemy sprung 

Clove into perilous chasms our walls 
and our poor palisades. 

Rifleman, true is your heart, but be 
sure that your hand be as true ! 

Sharp is the fire of assault, better aimed 
are your flank fusillades — 

Twice do we hurl them to earth from 
the ladders to which they had 
clung, 

Twice from the ditch where they shel- 
ter we drive them with hand- 
grenades ; 

And ever upon the topmost roof our 
banner of England blew. 60 



Then on another wild morning another 

wild earthquake out-tore 
Clean from our lines of defence ten or 

twelve good paces or more. 
Rifleman, high on the roof, hidden 

there from the light of the sun — 
One has leapt up on the breach, crying 

out : ' Follow me, follow 

me ! ' — 
Mark him — he falls ! then another, 

and Mm too, and down goes he. 
Had they been bold enough then, who 

can tell but the traitors had 

won ? 
Boardings and rafters and doors — an 

embrasure ! make way for the 

gun ! 
Now double-charge it with grape ! It 

is charged and we fire, and they 

run. 
Praise to our Indian brothers, and let 

the dark face have his due ! 
Thanks to the kindly dark faces who 

fought with us, faithful and 

few, 70 

Fought with the bravest among us, 

and drove them, and smote 

them, and slew, 
That ever upon the topmost roof our 

banner in India blew. 



Men will forget what we suffer and 
not what we do. We can fight ! 



SIR JOHN OLDCASTLE, LORD COBHAM 



599 



But to be soldier all day, and be sen- 
tinel all thro' the night — 

Ever the mine and assault, our sallies, 
their lying alarms, 

Bugles and drums in the darkness, and 
shoutings and soundings to 
arms, 

Ever the labor of fifty that had to be 
done by five, 

Ever the marvel among us that one 
should be left alive, 

Ever the day with its traitorous death 
from the loopholes around, 

Ever the night with its coffinless corpse 
to be laid in the ground, 80 

Heat like the mouth of a hell, or a 
deluge of cataract skies, 

Stench of old offal decaying, and in- 
finite torment of flies, 

Thoughts of the breezes of May blow- 
ing over an English field, 

Cholera, scurvy, and fever, the wound 
that would not be heal'd, 

Lopping away of the limb by the piti- 
ful-pitiless knife, — 

Torture and trouble in vain, — for it 
never could save us a life. 

Valor of delicate women who tended 
the hospital bed, 

Horror of women in travail among the 
dying and dead, 

Grief for our perishing children, and 
never a moment for grief, 

Toil and ineffable weariness, faltering 
hopes of relief, 90 

Havelock baffled, or beaten, or butch- 
er'd for all that we knew — 

Then day and night, day and night, 
coming down on the still-shat- 
ter'd walls 

Millions of musket-bullets, and thou- 
sands of cannon-balls — 

But ever upon the topmost roof our 
banner of England blew. 



Hark cannonade, fusillade ! is it true 
what was told by the scout, 

Outram and Havelock breaking their 
way through the fell mutineers ? 

Surely the pibroch of Europe is ring- 
ing again in our ears ! 

All on a sudden the garrison utter a 
jubilant shout, 

Havelock' s glorious Highlanders an- 
swer with conquering cheers, 



Sick from the hospital echo them, 

women and children come out, 
Blessing the wholesome white faces of 

Havelock' s good fusileers, 101 
Kissing the war-harden'd hand of the 

Highlander wet with their tears ! 
Dance to the pibroch ! — saved ! we 

are saved ! — is it you ? is it 

you? 
Saved by the valor of Havelock, saved 

by the blessing of heaven ! 
' Hold it for fifteen days ! ' we have 

held it for eighty-seven ! 
And ever aloft on the palace roof the 

old banner of England blew. 



SIR JOHN OLDCASTLE, LORD 
COBHAM 

(in wales) 

My friend should meet me somewhere 

hereabout 
To take me to that hiding in the hills. 

I have broke their cage, no gilded 
one, I trow — 

I read no more the prisoner's mute 
wail 

Scribbled or carved upon the pitiless 
stone ; 

I find hard rocks, hard life, hard 
cheer, or none, 

For I am emptier than a friar's brains ; 

But God is with me in this wilderness, 

These wet black passes and foam- 
churning chasms — 

And God's free air, and hope of better 
things. 10 

I would I knew their speech; not 
now to glean, 

Not now — I hope to do it — some 
scatter' d ears, 

Some ears for Christ in this wild field 
of Wales — 

But, bread, merely for bread. This 
tongue that wagg'd 

They said with such heretical arro- 
gance 

Against the proud archbishop Arun- 
del— 

So much God's cause was fluent in it 
— is here 

But as a Latin Bible to the crowd ; 



6oo 



BALLADS AND OTHER POEMS 



' Bara ! ' — what use ? The shepherd, 

when I speak, 
Tailing a sudden eyelid with his hard 
1 Dim Saesneg,' passes, wroth at things 

of old — 21 

No fault of mine. Had he God's 

word in Welsh 
He might be kindlier; happily come 

the day ! 

Not least art thou, thou little Beth- 
lehem 

In Judah, for in thee the Lord was 
born; 

Nor thou in Britain, little Lutter- 
worth, 

Least, for in thee the word was born 
again. 

Heaven-sweet Evangel, ever-living 

word, 
Who whilome spakest to the South in 

Greek 29 

About the soft Mediterranean shores, 
And then in Latin to the Latin crowd, 
As good need was — thou hast come 

to talk our isle. 
Hereafter thou, fulfilling Pentecost, 
Must learn to use the tongues of all 

the world. 
Yet art thou thine own witness that 

thou bringest 
Not peace, a sword, a fire. 

What did he say, 
My frighted Wiclif -preacher whom I 

crost 
In flying hither? that one night a 

crowd 
Throng' d the waste field about the 

city gates ; 
The king was on them suddenly with 

a host. 40 

Why there? they came to hear their 

preacher. Then 
Some cried on Cobham, on the good 

Lord Cobham ; 
Ay, for they love me ! but the king — 

nor voice 
Nor finger raised against him — took 

and hang'd, 
Took, hang'd and burnt — how many 

— thirty -nine — 
Call'd it rebellion — hang'd, poor 

friends, as rebels 
And burn'd alive as heretics ! for your 

priest 



Labels — to take the king along with 
him — 

All heresy, treason; but to call men 
traitors 

May make men traitors. 

Rose of Lancaster, 

Red in thy birth, redder with house- 
hold war, , 51 

Now reddest with the blood of holy 
men, 

Redder to be, red rose of Lancaster — 

If somewhere in the North, as Rumor 
sang 

Fluttering the hawks of this crown- 
lusting line — 

By firth and loch thy silver sister 
grow, * 

That were my rose, there my alle- 
giance due. 

Self-starved, they say — nay, mur- 
der'd, doubtless dead. 

So to this king I cleaved. My friend 
was he, 

Once my fast friend ; I would have 
given my life 60 

To help his own from scathe, a thou- 
sand lives 

To save his soul. He might have 
come to learn 

Our Wiclif 's learning ; but the worldly 
priests, 

Who fear the king's hard common- 
sense should find 

What rotten piles uphold their mason- 
work, 

Urge him to foreign war. O, had he 
will'd 

I might have stricken a lusty stroke 
for him, 

But he would not ; far liever led my 
friend 

Back to the pure and universal church, 

But he would not — whether that heir- 
less flaw 70 

In his throne's title make him feel so 
frail, 

He leans on Antichrist; or that his 
mind, 

So quick, so capable in soldiership, 

In matters of the faith, alas the 
while! 

More worth than all the kingdoms of 
this world, 

Runs in the rut, a coward to the 
priest. 

1 Richard II. 



SIR JOHN OLDCASTLE, LORD COBHAM 



6or 



Burnt — good Sir Roger Acton, my 

dear friend ! 
Burnt too, my faithful preacher, Bev- 
erley ! 
Lord, give thou power to thy two 

witnesses, 
Lest the false faith make merry over 

them ! 80 

Two — nay, but thirty-nine have risen 

and stand, 
Dark with the smoke of human sacri- 
fice, 
Before thy light, and cry continually — 
Cry — against whom ? 

Him, who should bear the sword 
Of Justice — what! the kingly, kindly 

boy; 
Who took the world so easily hereto- 
fore, 
My boon companion, tavern-fellow — 

him 
Who jibed and japed — in many a 

merry tale 
That shook our sides — at pardoners, 

summoners, 
Friars, absolution-sellers, monkeries 90 
And nunneries, when the wild hour 

and the wine 
Had set the wits aflame. 

Harry of Monmouth, 
Or Amurath of the East ? 

Better to sink 
Thy fleurs-de-lys in slime again, and 

fling 
Thy royalty back into the riotous 

fits 
Of wine and harlotry — thy shame, 

and mine, 
Thy comrade — than to persecute the 

Lord, 
And play the Saul that never will be 

Paul. 

Burnt, burnt ! and while this mitred 

Arundel 
Dooms our unlicensed preacher to the 

flame, 100 

The mitre-sanction'd harlot draws his 

clerks 
Into the suburb — their hard celibacy, 
Sworn to be veriest ice of pureness, 

molten 
Into adulterous living, or such crimes 
As holy Paul — a shame to speak of 

them — 
Among the heathen — 



Sanctuary granted 
To bandit, thief, assassin — yea, to 

him 
Who hacks his mother's throat — de- 
nied to him 
Who finds the Saviour in his mother 

tongue. 
The Gospel, the priest's pearl, flung 

down to swine — no 

The swine, lay-men, lay-women, who 

will come, 
God willing, to outlearn the filthy 

friar. 
Ah, rather, Lord, than that thy Gos- 
pel, meant 
To course and range thro' all the 

world, should be 
Tether'd to these dead pillars of the 

Church — 
Rather than so, if thou wilt have it so, 
Burst vein, snap sinew, and crack 

heart, and life 
Pass in the fire of Babylon ! but how 

long, 
O Lord, how long ! 

My friend should meet me nere. 
Here is the copse, the fountain and — 

a cross ! 120 

To thee, dead wood, I bow not head 

nor knees. 
Rather to thee, green boscage, work 

of God, 
Black holly, and white-flower'd way- 
faring-tree ! 
Rather to thee, thou living water, 

drawn 
By this good Wiclif mountain down 

from heaven, 
And speaking clearly in thy native 

tongue — 
No Latin — He that thirsteth, come 

and drink ! 

Eh ! how I anger' d Arundel asking 

me 
To worship Holy Cross ! I spread 

mine arms, 
God's work, I said, a cross of flesh and 

blood 130 

And holier. That was heresy. — My 

good friend 
By this time should be with me. — 

1 Images ? ' 
'Bury them as God's truer images 
Are daily buried.' ' Heresy. — Pen- 

ance ? ' ' Fast, 



6o2 



BALLADS AND OTHER POEMS 



Hair-shirt and scourge — nay, let a 
man repent, 

Do penance in his heart, God hears 
him. ' ' Heresy — 

Not shriven, not saved ? ' ' What 
profits an ill priest 

Between me and my God ? I would 
not spurn 

Good counsel of good friends, but 
shrive myself — 

No, not to an Apostle.' ' Heresy.' — 

My friend is long in coming. — ' Pil- 
grimages ? ' 141 

'Drink, bagpipes, revelling, devil's- 
dances, vice. 

The poor man's money gone to fat the 
friar. 

Who reads of begging saints in Scrip- 
ture ? ' — ' Heresy ' — 

Hath he been here — not found me — 
gone again ? 

Have I mislearnt our place of meet- 
ing ? — ' Bread — 

Bread left after the blessing ? ' how 
they stared, 

That was their main test-question — 
glared at me ! 

' He veil'd Himself in flesh, and now 
He veils 

His flesh in bread, body and bread to- 
gether.' 150 

Then rose the howl of all the cassock' d 
wolves, 

' ISTo bread, no bread. God's body ! ' 
Archbishop, bishop, 

Priors, canons, friars, bell-ringers, 
parish-clerks — 

' No bread, no bread ! ' — ' Authority 
of the Church, 

Power of the keys ! ' — Then I, God 
help me, I 

So mock'd, so spurn'd, so baited two 
whole days — 

I lost myself and fell from evenness, 

And rail'd at all the Popes that, ever 
since 

Sylvester shed the venom of world- 
wealth 

Into the church, had only proven 
themselves 160 

Poisoners, murderers. Well — God 
pardon all — 

Me, them, and all the world — yea, 
that proud priest, 

That mock-meek mouth of utter Anti- 
christ, 



That traitor to King Richard and the 
truth, 

Who rose and doom'd me to the fire. 

Amen ! 

Nay, I can burn, so that the Lord of 
life 

Be by me in my death. 

Those three ! the fourth 

Was like the Son of God ! Not burnt 
were they. 

On them the smell of burning had not 
past. 

That was a miracle to convert the 
king. i 7 o 

These Pharisees, this Caiaphas-Arun- 
del 

What miracle could turn ? He here 
again, 

He thwarting their traditions of Him- 
self, 

He would be found a heretic to Him- 
self, 

And doom'd to burn alive. 

So, caught, I burn. 

Burn ? heathen men have borne as 
much as this, 

For freedom, or the sake of those they 
loved, 

Or some less cause, some cause far less 
than mine ; 

For every other cause is less than mine. 

The moth will singe her wings, and 
singed return, 180 

Her love of light quenching her fear 
of pain — 

How now, my soul, we do not heed 
the fire ? 

Faint - hearted ? tut ! — faint - stom- 
ach' d ! faint as I am, 

God willing, I will burn for Him. 

Who comes ? 

A thousand marks are set upon my 
head. 

Friend ? — foe perhaps — a tussle for 
it then ! 

Nay, but my friend. Thou art so 
well disguised, 

I knew thee not. Hast thou brought 
bread with thee ? 

I have not broken bread for fifty hours. 

None ? I am damn'd already by the 
priest 190 

For holding there was bread where 
bread was none — 

No bread. My friends await me yon- 
der ? Yes. 



COLUMBUS 



603 



Lead on then. Up the mountain ? Is 

it far ? 
Not far. Climb first and reach me 

down thy hand. 
I am not like to die for lack of 

bread, 
For I must live to testify by fire. 1 



COLUMBUS 

Chains, my good lord ! In your 
raised brows I read 

Some wonder at our chamber orna- 
ments. 

We brought this iron from our isles of 
gold. 

Does the King know you deign to 

visit him 
Whom once he rose from off his throne 

to greet 
Before his people, like his brother 

king? 
I saw your face that morning in the 

crowd. 

At Barcelona — tho' you were not 

then 
So bearded. Yes. The city deck'd 

herself 
To meet me, roar'd my name ; the 

King, the Queen, 10 

Bade me be seated, speak, and tell 

them all 
The story of my voyage, and while I 

spoke 
The crowd's roar fell as at the 'Peace, 

be still ! ' 
And when I ceased to speak, the King, 

the Queen, 
Sank from their thrones, and melted 

into tears, 
And knelt, and lifted hand and heart 

and voice 
In praise to God who led me thro' the 

waste. 
And then the great 'Laudamus' rose 

to heaven. 

Chains for the Admiral of the Ocean ! 
chains 
For him who gave a new heaven, a 
new earth, 20 

As holy John had prophesied of me, 
1 He was burnt on Christmas Dav, 1417. 



Gave glory and more empire to the 

kings 
Of Spain than all their battles ! chains 

for him 
Who push'd his prows into the setting 

sun, 
And made West East, and sail'd the 

Dragon's Mouth, 
And came upon the Mountain of the 

World, 
And saw the rivers roll from Paradise ! 

Chains \ we are Admirals of the 

Ocean, we, 
We and our sons for ever. Ferdinand 
Hath sign'd it and our Holy Catholic 

Queen — 30 

Of the Ocean — of the Indies — Admi- 
rals we — 
Our title, which we never mean to 

yield, 
Our guerdon not alone for what we 

did, 
But our amends for all we might have 

done — 
The vast occasion of our stronger 

life— 
Eighteen long years of waste, seven 

in your Spain, 
Lost, showing courts and kings a 

truth the babe 
Will suck in with his milk hereafter 

— earth 
A sphere. 

Were you at Salamanca ? No. 
We fronted there the learning of all 

Spain, 40 

All their cosmogonies, their astrono- 
mies. 
Guess-work they guess'd it, but the 

golden guess 
Is morning-star to the full round of 

truth. 
No guess-work ! I was certain of my 

goal ; 
Some thought it heresy, but that would 

not hold. 
King David call'd the heavens a hide, 

a tent 
Spread over earth, and so this earth 

was flat. 
Some cited old Lactantius ; could it 

be 
That trees grew downward, rain fell 

upward, men 



604 



BALLADS AND OTHER POEMS 



Walk'd like the fly on ceilings ? and 

besides, 50 

The great Augustine wrote that none 

could breathe 
Within the zone of heat ; so might 

there be 
Two Adams, two mankinds, and that 

was clean 
Against God's word. Thus was I 

beaten back, 
And chiefly to my sorrow by the 

Church, 
And thought to turn my face from 

Spain, appeal 
Once more to France or England ; but 

our Queen 
Recall'd me, for at last their High- 
nesses 
Were hall-assured this earth might be 

a sphere. 

All glory to the all-blessed Trinity, 
All glory to the mother of our Lord, 61 
And Holy Church, from whom I never 

swerved 
Not even by one hair's-breadth of 

heresy, 
I have accomplish' d what I came to do. 

Not yet — not all — last night a 

dream — I sail'd 
On my first voyage, harass'd by the 

frights 
Of my first crew, their curses and 

their groans, 
The great flame-banner borne by Ten- 

eriffe, 
The compass, like an old friend false 

at last 
In our most need, appall' d them, and 

the wind 70 

Still westward, and the weedy seas — 

at length 
The land-bird, and the branch with 

berries on it, 
The carven staff — and last the light, 

the light 
On Guanahani ! but I changed the 

name ; 
San Salvador I call'd it ; and the light 
Grew as I gazed, and brought out a 

broad sky 
Of dawning over — not those alien 

palms, 
The marvel of that fair new nature — 

not 



That Indian isle, but our most ancient 

East, 
Moriah with Jerusalem ; and I saw 80 
The glory of the Lord flash up, and 

beat 
Thro' all the homely town from jasper, 

sapphire, 
Chalcedony, emerald, sardonyx, sar- 

dius, 
Chrysolite, beryl, topaz, chrysoprase, 
Jacynth, and amethyst — and those 

twelve gates, 
Pearl — and I woke, and thought — 

death — I shall die — 
I am written in the Lamb's own Book 

of Life 
To walk within the glory of the Lord 
Sunless and moonless, utter light — 

but no ! 
The Lord had sent this bright, strange 

dream to me 90 

To mind me of the secret vow I 

made 
When Spain was waging war against 

the Moor — 
I strove myself with Spain against the 

Moor. 
There came two voices from the Sep- 
ulchre, 
Two friars crying that, if Spain should 

oust 
The Moslem from her limit, he, the 

fierce 
Soldan of Egypt, would break down 

and raze 
The blessed tomb of Christ ; whereon 

I vow'd 
That, if our princes harken'd to my 

prayer, 
Whatever wealth I brought from that 

new world 100 

Should, in this old, be consecrate to 

lead 
A new crusade against the Saracen, 
And free the Holy Sepulchre from 

thrall. 

Gold ? I had brought your princes 

gold enough 
If left alone ! Being but a Genovese, 
I am handled worse than had I been a 

Moor, 
And breach'd the belting wall of Cam- 

balu, 
And given the Great Khan's palaces 

to the Moor, 




COLUMBUS 



605 



Or clutch' d the sacred crown of Pr es- 
ter John, 
And cast it to the Moor. But had I 

brought no 

From Solomon's now-recover'd Ophir 

all 
The gold that Solomon's navies carried 

home, 
Would that have gilded met Blue 

blood of Spain, 
Tho' quartering your own royal arms 

of Spain, 
I have not; blue blood and black 

blood of Spain, 
The noble and the convict of Castile, 
Howl'd me from Hispaniola. For you 

know 
The flies at home, that ever swarm 

about 
And cloud the highest heads, and 

murmur down 
Truth in the distance — these out- 

buzz'd me so 120 

That even our prudent King, our 

righteous Queen — 
I pray'd them being so calumniated 
They would commission one of weight 

and worth 
To judge between my slander'd self 

and me — 
Fonseca my main enemy at their court, 
They sent me out his tool, Bovadilla, 

one 
As ignorant and impolitic as a beast — 
Blockish irreverence, brainless greed 

— who sack'd 
My dwelling, seized upon my papers, 

loosed 
My captives, feed the rebels of the 

crown, 130 

Sold the crown-farms for all but no- 
thing, gave 
All but free leave for all to work the 

mines, 
Drove me and my good brothers home 

in chains, 
And gathering ruthless gold — a single 

piece 
Weigh'd nigh four thousand Castilla- 

nos — so 
They tell me — weigh'd him down 

into the abysm — 
The hurricane of the latitude on him 

fell, 
The seas of our discovering over-roll 
Him and his gold ; the frailer caravel, 



With what was mine, came happily to 
the shore. 140 

There was a glimmering of God's 
hand. 

And God 

Hath more than glimmer' d on me. O 
my lord, 

I swear to you I heard His voice be- 
tween 

The thunders in the black Yeragua 
nights, 

' O soul of little faith, slow to believe ! 

Have I not been about thee from thy 
birth ? 

Given thee the keys of the great Ocean - 
sea ? 

Set thee in light till time shall be no 
more ? 

Is it I who have deceived thee or the 
world ? 

Endure ! thou hast done so well for 
men, that men 150 

Cry out against thee. Was it other- 
wise 

With mine own Son ? ' 

And more than once in days 
Of doubt and cloud and storm, when 

drowning hope 
Sank all but out of sight, I heard His 

voice, 
'Be not cast down. I lead thee by 

the hand, 
Fear not. ' And I shall hear His voice 

again — 
I know that He has led me all my 

life, 
I am not yet too old to work His 

will — 
His voice again. 

Still for all that, my lord, 

I lying here bedridden and alone, 160 

Cast off, put by, scouted by court and 
king — 

The first discoverer starves — his fol- 
lowers, all 

Flower into fortune — our world's 
way — and I, 

Without a roof that I can call mine 
own, 

With scarce a coin to buy a meal 
withal, 

And seeing what a door for scoundrel 
scum 



6o6 



BALLADS AND OTHER POEMS 



I open'd to the West, thro' which the 

lust, 
Villainy, violence, avarice, of your 

Spain 
Pour'd in on all those happy naked 

isles — 
Their kindly native princes slain or 

slaved, 170 

Their wives and children Spanish con- 
cubines, 
Their innocent hospitalities quench'd 

in blood, 
Some dead of hunger, some beneath 

the scourge, 
Some over-labor'd, some by their own 

hands, — 
Yea, the dear mothers, crazing Na- 
ture, kill 
Their babies at the breast for hate of 

Spain — 
Ah God, the harmless people whom 

we found 
In Hispaniola's island-Paradise ! 
Who took us for the very gods from 

heaven, 
And we have sent them very fiends 

from hell ; 180 

And I myself, myself not blameless, I 
Could sometimes wish I had never led 

the way. 

Only the ghost of our great Catholic 
Queen 

Smiles on me, saying, ' Be thou com- 
forted ! 

This creedless people will be brought 
to Christ 

And own the holy governance of 
Rome. ' 

But who could dream that we, who 
bore the Cross 
Thither, were excommunicated there, 
For curbing crimes that scandalized 

the Cross, 
By him, the Catalonian Minorite, 190 
Rome's Vicar in our Indies ? who be- 
lieve 
These hard memorials of our truth to 

Spain 
Clung closer to us for a longer term 
Than any friend of ours at Court? 

and yet 
Pardon — too harsh, unjust. I am 
rack'd with pains. 



You see that I have hung them by 
my bed, 
And I will have them buried in my 
grave. 

Sir, in that flight of ages which are 

God's 
Own voice to justify the dead — per- 
chance 
Spain, once the most chivalric race 

on earth, 200 

Spain, then the mightiest, wealthiest 

realm on earth, 
So made by me, may seek to unbury 

me, 
To lay me in some shrine of this old 

Spain, 
Or in that vaster Spain I leave to 

Spain. 
Then some one standing by my grave 

will say, 
' Behold the bones of Christopher Co- 
lon'— 
'Ay, but the chains, what do they 

mean — the chains ?' 
I sorrow for that kindly child of Spain 
Who then will have to answer, ' These 

same chains 
Bound these same bones back thro' 

the Atlantic sea, 210 

Which he unchain' d for all the world 

to come.' 

O Queen of Heaven who seest the 

souls in hell 
And purgatory, I suffer all as much 
As they do — for the moment. Stay, 

my son 
Is here anon ; my son will speak for 

me 
Ablier than I can in these spasms that 

grind 
Bone against bone. You will not. 

One last word. 

You move about the Court : I pray 
you tell 

King Ferdinand who plays with me, 
that one 

Whose life has been no play with him 
and his 220 

Hidalgos — shipwrecks, famines, fe- 
vers, fights, 

Mutinies, treacheries — wink'd at, and 
condoned — 



THE VOYAGE OF MAELDUNE 



607 



That I am loyal to him till the death, 
And ready — tho' our Holy Catholic 

Queen, 
Who fain had pledged her jewels on 

my first voyage, 
Whose hope was mine to spread the 

Catholic faith, 

■ Who wept with me when I returned 
in chains, 
Who sits beside the blessed Virgin 
now, 

*To whom I send my prayer by night 
and day — 
She is gone — but you will tell the 

King, that I, 230 

Rack'd as I am with gout, and wrench' d 

with pains 
Gain'd in the service of His Highness, 

yet 
Am ready to sail forth on one last 

voyage, 
And readier, if the King would hear, 

to lead 
One last crusade against the Saracen, 
And save the Holy Sepulchre from 

thrall. 

Going ? I am old and slighted ; you 

have dared 
Somewhat perhaps in coming? my 

poor thanks ! 
I am but an alien and a Genovese. 

THE VOYAGE OF MAELDUNE 

(FOUNDED ON AN IRISH LEGEND 
A. D. 700) 

I 

I was the chief of the race — he had 

stricken my father dead — 
But I gather'd my fellows together, I 

swore I would strike off his 

head. 
Each of them look'd like a king, and 

was noble in birth as in worth, 
And each of them boasted he sprang 

from the oldest race upon earth. 
Each was as brave in the fight as the 

bravest hero of song, 
And each of them liefer had died than 

have done one another a wrong. 
He lived on an isle in the ocean — we 

sail'd on a Friday morn — 
He that had slain my father the day 

before I was born. 



And we came to the isle in the ocean, 
and there on the shore was 
he. 

But a sudden blast blew us out and 
away thro' a boundless sea. 10 



And we came to the Silent Isle that 

we never had touch' d at before, 
Where a silent ocean always broke on 

a silent shore, 
And the brooks glitter' d on in the 

light without sound, and the 

long waterfalls 
Pour'd in a thunderless plunge to the 

base of the mountain walls, 
And the poplar and cypress unshaken 

by storm flourish'd up beyond 

sight, 
And the pine shot aloft from the crag 

to an unbelievable height, 
And high in the heaven above it there 

flicker'd a songless lark, 
And the cock could n't crow, and the 

bull couldn't low, and the dog 

could n't bark. 
And round it we went, and thro' it, 

but never a murmur, a breath — 
It was all of it fair as life, it was all 

of it quiet as death, 20 

And we hated the beautiful isle, for 

whenever we strove to speak 
Our voices were thinner and fainter 

than any flittermouse shriek ; 
And the men that were mighty of 

tongue and could raise such a 

battle-cry 
That a hundred who heard it would 

rush on a thousand lances and 

die — 
O, they to be dumb'd by the charm ! 

— so fluster'd with anger were 

they 
They almost fell on each other ; but 

after we sail'd away. 

IV 

And we came to the Isle of Shouting ; 
we landed, a score of wild birds 

Cried from the topmost summit with 
human voices and words. 

Once in an hour they cried, and when- 
ever their voices peal'd 29 

The steer fell down at the plow and 
the harvest died from the field, 



6o8 



BALLADS AND OTHER POEMS 



And the men dropt dead in the valleys 

and half of the cattle went lame, 
And the roof sank in on the hearth, 

and the dwelling broke into 

flame ; 
And the shouting of these wild birds 

ran into the hearts of my crew, 
Till they shouted along with the 

shouting and seized one another 

and slew. 
But I drew them the one from the 

other ; I saw that we could not 

stay, 
And we left the dead to the birds, and 

we sail'd with our wounded 

away. 



And we came to the Isle of Flowers ; 

their breath met us out on the 

seas, 
For the Spring and the middle Sum- 
mer sat each on the lap of the 

breeze ; 
And the red passion-flower to the cliffs, 

and the dark-blue clematis, 

clung, 
And starr'd with a myriad blossom the 

long convolvulus hung ; 40 

And the topmost spire of the moun- 
tain was lilies in lieu of snow, 
And the lilies like glaciers winded 

down, running out below 
Thro' the fire of the tulip and poppy, 

the blaze of gorse, and the blush 
Of millions of roses that sprang with- 
out leaf or a thorn from the 

bush ; 
And the whole isle-side flashing down 

from the peak without ever a 

tree 
Swept like a torrent of gems from the 

sky to the blue of the sea. 
And we roll'd upon capes of crocus 

and vaunted our kith and our 

kin, 
And we wallow'd in beds of lilies, and 

chanted the triumph of Finn, 
Till each like a golden image was pol- 

len'd from head to feet 
And each was as dry as a cricket, with 

thirst in the middle-day heat. 50 
Blossom and blossom, and promise of 

blossom, but never a fruit ! 
And we hated the Flowering Isle, as 

we hated the isle that was mute, 



And we tore up the flowers by the 
million and flung them in bight 
and bay, 

And we left but a naked rock, and in 
anger we sail'd away. 

VI 

And we came to the Isle of Fruits ; all 

round from the cliffs and the 

capes, 
Purple or amber, dangled a hundred 

fathom of grapes, 
And the warm melon lay like a little 

sun on the tawny sand, 
And the fig ran up from the beach and 

rioted over the land, 
And the mountain arose like a j e well'd 

throne thro' the fragrant air, 
Glowing with all-color' d plums and 

with golden masses of pear, 60 
And the crimson and scarlet of berries 

that flamed upon bine and vine, 
But in every berry and fruit was the 

poisonous pleasure of wine ; 
And the peak of the mountain was 

apples, the hugest that ever 

were seen, 
And they prest, as they grew, on each 

other, with hardly a leaflet be- 
tween, 
And all of them redder than rosiest 

health or than utter est shame, 
And setting, when Even descended, 

the very sunset aflame. 
And we stay'd three days, and we 

gorged and we madden'd, till 

every one drew 
His sword on his fellow to slay him, 

and ever they struck and they 

slew ; 
And myself, I had eaten but sparely, 

and fought till I sunder' d the 

fray, 
Then I bade them remember my fa- 
ther's death, and we sail'd away. 

VII 

And we came to the Isle of Fire ; we 
were lured by the light from 
afar, 71 

For the peak sent up one league of fire 
to the Northern Star ; 

Lured by the glare and the blare, but 
scarcely could stand upright, 

For the whole isle shudder'dand shook 
like a man in a mortal" affright. 



THE VOYAGE OF MAELDUNE 



609 






We were giddy besides with the fruits 

we had gorged, and so crazed 

that at last 
There were some leap'd into the fire ; 

and away we sail'd, and we past 
Over that undersea isle, where the 

water is clearer than air. 
Down we look'd — what a garden ! O 

bliss, what a Paradise there ! 
Towers of a happier time, low down 

in a rainbow deep 
Silent palaces, quiet fields of eternal 

sleep ! 80 

And three of the gentlest and best of 

my people, whate'er I could say, 
Plunged head-down in the sea, and 

the Paradise trembled away. 

VIII 

And we came to the Bounteous Isle, 

where the heavens lean low on 

the land, 
And ever at dawn from the cloud glit- 

ter'd o'er us a sun-bright hand, 
Then it open'd and dropt at the side of 

each man, as he rose from his 

rest, 
Bread enough for his need till the labor- 
less day dipt under the west ; 
And we wander'd about it and thro' it. 

O, never was time so good ! 
And we sang of the triumphs of Finn, 

and the boast of our ancient 

blood, 
And we gazed at the wandering wave 

as we sat by the gurgle of 

springs, 89 

And we chanted the songs of the Bards 

and the glories of fairy kings. 
But at length we began to be weary, 

to sigh, and to stretch and yawn, 
Till we hated the Bounteous Isle and 

the sun- bright hand of the dawn, 
For there was not an enemy near, but 

the whole green isle was our 

own, 
And we took to playing at ball, and 

we took to throwing the stone, 
And we took to playing at battle, but 

that was a perilous play, 
For the passion of battle was in us, we 

slew and we sail'd away. 



And we came to the Isle of Witches 
and heard their musical cry — 



' Come to us, O, come, come ! ' in the 

stormy red of a sky 
Dashing the fires and the shadows of 

dawn on the beautiful shapes, 
For a wild witch naked as heaven 

stood on each of the loftiest 

capes, 100 

And a hundred ranged on the rock like 

white sea-birds in a row, 
And a hundred gamboll'd and pranced 

on the wrecks in the sand below, 
And a hundred splash'd from the 

ledges, and bosom'd the burst 

of the spray ; 
But I knew we should fall on each 

other, and hastily sail'd away. 



And we came in an evil time to the 

Isle of the Double Towers, 
One was of smooth-cut stone, one 

carved all over with flowers, 
But an earthquake always moved in 

the hollows under the dells, 
And they shock'd on each other and 

butted each other with clashing 

of bells, 
And the daws flew out of the towers 

and jangled and wrangled in 

vain, 
And the clash and boom of the bells 

rang into the heart and the 

brain, no 

Till the passion of battle was on us, 

and all took sides with the 

towers, 
There were some for the clean-cut 

stone, there were more for the 

carven flowers, 
And the wrathful thunder of God 

peal'd over us all the day, 
For the one half slew the other, and 

after we sail'd away. 

XI 

And we came to the Isle of a Saint 
who had sail'd with Saint Bren- 
dan of yore, 

He had lived ever since on the isle 
and his winters were fifteen 
score, 

And his voice was low as from other 
worlds, and his eyes were sw eet, 

And his white hair sank to his heels, 
and his white beard fell to his 
feet, 



6io 



BALLADS AND OTHER POEMS 



And he spake to me : '0 Maeldune, 

let be this purpose of thine ! 
Remember the words of the Lord 

when he told us, "Vengeance 

is mine ! " 120 

His fathers have slain thy fathers in 

war or in single strife, 
Thy fathers have slain his fathers, 

each taken a life for a life, 
Thy father had slain his father, how 

long shall the murder last? 
Go back to the Isle of Finn and suffer 

the Past to be Past.' 
And we kiss'd the fringe of his beard, 

and we pray'd as we heard 

him pray, 
And the holy man he as soil' d us, and 

sadly we sail'd away. 



And we came to the isle we were 

blown from, and there on the 

shore was he, 
The man that had slain my father. I 

saw him and let him be. 
O, weary was I of the travel, the 

trouble, the strife, and the sin, 
When I landed again with a tithe of 

my men, on the Isle of Finn ! 130 



DE PROFUNDIS: 

THE TWO GREETINGS 
I 

Out of the deep, my child, out of the 

deep, 
Where all that was to be, in all that 

was, 
Whirl'd for a million aeons thro' the 

vast 
Waste dawn of multitudinous-eddy- 
ing light — 
Out of the deep, my child, out of the 

deep, 
Thro' all this changing world of 

changeless law, 
And every phase of ever-heightening 

life, 
And nine long months of antenatal 

gloom, 
With this last moon, this crescent — 

her dark orb 
Touch'd with earth's light — thou 

comest, darling boy ; 



Our own ; a babe in lineament and 

limb 
Perfect, and prophet of the perfect 

man; 
Whose face and form are hers and 

mine in one, 
Indissolubly married like our love. 
Live, and be happy in thyself, and 

serve 
This mortal race thy kin so well that 

men 
May bless thee as we bless thee, O 

young life 
Breaking with laughter from the 

dark ; and may 
The fated channel where thy motion 

lives 
Be prosperously shaped, and sway 

thy course 
Along the years of haste and random 

youth 
Unshatter'd ; then full-current thro' 

full man ; 
And last in kindly curves, with gen- 
tlest fall, 
By quiet fields, a slowly-dying power, 
To that last deep where we and thou 

are still. 



II 



Out of the deep, my child, out of the 
deep, 

From that great deep, before our 
world begins, 

Whereon the Spirit of God moves as 
he will — 

Out of the deep, my child, out of the 
deep, 

From that true world within the 
world we see, 

Whereof our world is but the bound- 
ing shore — 

Out of the deep, Spirit, out of the 
deep, 

With this ninth moon, that sends the 
hidden sun 

Down yon dark sea, thou comest, dar- 
ling boy. 



For in the world which is not ours 

They said, 
'Let us make man/ and that which 

should be man, 



TO THE REV. W. H. BROOKFIELD 



611 



From that one light no man can look 

upon, 
Drew to this shore lit by the suns and 

* moons 

And all the shadows. O dear Spirit, 
half-lost 

In thine own shadow and this fleshly 
sign 

That thou art thou — who wailest be- 
ing born 

And banish' d into mystery, and the 
pain 

Of this divisible-indivisible world 

Among the numerable-innumerable 

Sun, sun, and sun, thro' finite-infinite 
space 

In finite-infinite Time — our mortal 
veil 

And shatter' d phantom of that infinite 
One, 

Who made thee uncohceivably Thy- 
self 

Out of His whole World- self and all 
in all — 

Live thou ! and of the grain and husk, 
the grape 

And ivy -berry, choose ; and still de- 
part 

From death to death thro' life and 
life, and find 

Nearer and ever nearer Him, who 
wrought 

Not matter, nor the finite-infinite, 

But this main-miracle, that thou art 
thou, 

With power on thine own act and on 
the world. 

THE HUMAN CRY 



Hallowed be Thy name — Hallelu- 
iah ! — 

Infinite Ideality ! 

Immeasurable Reality ! 

Infinite Personality ! 
Hallowed be Thy name — Halleluiah ! 



We feel we are nothing — for all is 

Thou and in Thee ; 
We feel we are something — that also 

has come from Thee ; 
We know we are nothing — but Thou 

wilt help us to be. 
Hallowed be Thy name — Halleluiah! 



SONNETS 

PREFATORY SONNET 
TO 'THE NINETEENTH CENTURY' 

Those that of late had fleeted far and 

fast 
To touch all shores, now leaving to 

the skill 
Of others their old craft seaworthy 

still, 
Have charter' d this; where, mindful 

of the past, 
Our true co-mates regather round the 

mast; 
Of diverse tongue, but with a com- 
mon will 
Here, in this roaring moon of daffodil 
And crocus, to put forth and brave 

the blast. 
For some, descending from the sacred 

peak 
Of hoar high-templed Faith, have 

leagued again 
Their lot with ours to rove the world 

about ; 
And some are wilder comrades, sworn 

to seek 
If any golden harbor be for men 
In seas of Death and sunless gulfs of 

Doubt. 



TO THE REV. W. H. BROOKFIELD 

Brooks, for they call'd you so that 

knew you best, 
Old Brooks, who loved so well to 

mouth my rhymes, 
How oft we two have heard Saint 

Mary's chimes ! 
How oft the Cantab supper, host and 

guest, 
Would echo helpless laughter to your 

jest! 
How oft with him we paced that walk 

of limes, 
Him, the lost light of those dawn- 
golden times, 
Who loved you well! Inow both are 

gone to rest. 
You man of humorous melancholy 

mark, 
Dead of some inward agony — is it so? 
Our kindlier, trustier Jaques, past 

away ! 



6l2 



BALLADS AND OTHER POEMS 




Victor Hugo 



I cannot laud this life, it looks so 

dark. 
5/cias 6vap — dream of a shadow, go — 
God bless you! I shall join you in a 

day. 

MONTENEGRO 

They rose to where their sovran eagle 
sails, 

They kept their faith, their freedom, 
on the height, 

Chaste, frugal, savage, arm'd by day 
and night 

Against the Turk; whose inroad no- 
where scales 

Their headlong passes, but his foot- 
step fails, 

And red with blood the Crescent reels 
from fight 

Before their dauntless hundreds, in 
prone flight 



By thousands down the crags and thro 5 

the vales. 
O smallest among peoples ! rough 

rock-throne 
Of Freedom ! warriors beating back 

the swarm 
Of Turkish Islam for five hundred 

years, 
Great Tsernogora ! never since thine 

own 
Black ridges drew the cloud and brake 

the storm 
Has breathed a race of mightier moun- 
taineers. 

TO VICTOR HUGO 

Victor in Drama, Victor in Romance, 
Cloud-weaver of phantasmal hopes 

and fears, 
French of the French, and Lord of 

human tears ; 



BATTLE OF BRUNANBURH 



613 



Child-lover ; Bard whose fame-lit 

laurels glance 
Darkening the wreaths of all that 

would advance, 
Beyond our strait, their claim to be 

thy peers ; 
Weird Titan by thy winter weight of 

years 
As yet unbroken, stormy voice of 

France ! 
Who dost not love our England — so 

they say ; 
I know not — England, France, all 

man to be 
Will make one people ere man's race 

be run : 
And I, desiring that diviner day, 
Yield thee full thanks for thy full 

courtesy 
To younger England in the boy my 

son. 



TRANSLATIONS, ETC. 
BATTLE OF BRUNANBURH 



1 Athelstan King, 
Lord among Earls, 
Bracelet-bestower and 
Baron of Barons, 
He with his brother, 
Edmund Atheling, 
Gaining a lifelong- 
Glory in battle, 
Slew with the sword -edge 
There by Brunanburh, 
Brake the shield-wall, 
Hew'd the linden- wood, 2 
Hack'd the battle-shield, 
Sons of Edward with hammer'd brands. 



Theirs was a greatness 
Got from their grandsires — 
Theirs that so often in 
Strife with their enemies 
Struck for their hoards and their 
hearths and their homes. 

1 I have more or less availed myself of 
my son's prose translation of this poem in 
the 'Contemporary Review' (November, 
1876). 

2 Shields of lindenwood. 



ill 



Bow'd the spoiler, 

Bent the Scotsman, 

Fell the ship- crews 

Doom'd to the death. 
All the field with blood of the fighters 

Flow'd, from when first the 
great 

Sun-star of morning-tide, 

Lamp of the Lord God 

Lord everlasting, 
Glode over earth till the glorious crea- 
ture 

Sank to his setting. 



There lay many a man 
Marr'd by the javelin, 
Men of the Northland 
Shot over shield. 
There was the Scotsman 
Weary of war. 



We the West-Saxons, 
Long as the daylight 
Lasted, in companies 
Troubled the track of the host that we 

hated ; 
Grimly with swords that were sharp 

from the grindstone, 
Fiercely we hack'd at the flyers before 



Mighty the Mercian, 
Hard was his hand-play, 
Sparing not any of 
Those that with Anlaf , 
Warriors over the 
Weltering waters 
Borne in the bark's-bosom, 
Drew to this island — 
Doom'd to the death. 



Five young kings put asleep by the 
swordstroke, 

Seven strong earls of the army of 
Anlaf 

Fell on the war-field, numberless num- 
bers, 

Shipmen and Scotsmen. 



614 



BALLADS AND OTHER POEMS 



VIII 

Then the Norse leader — 
Dire was his need of it, 
Few were his following — 
Fled to his war-ship ; 

Fleeted his vessel to sea with the king- 
in it, 

Saving his life on the fallow flood. 



Also the crafty one, 
Const antinus, 
Crept to his North again, 
Hoar-headed hero ! 



Slender warrant had 

He to be proud of 

The welcome of war-knives — 

He that was reft of his 

Folk and his friends that had 

Fallen in conflict, 

Leaving his son too 

Lost in the carnage, 

Mangled to morsels, 

A youngster in war ! 



Slender reason had 

He to be glad of 

The clash of the war-glaive — 

Traitor and trickster 

And spurner of treaties — 

He nor had Anlaf 

With armies so broken 

A reason for bragging 

That they had the better 

In perils of battle 

On places of slaughter — 

The struggle of standards, 

The rush of the javelins, 

The crash of the charges, 1 

The wielding of weapons — 

The play that they play'd with 

The children of Edward. 

XII 

Then with their nail'd prows 
Parted the Norsemen, a 
Blood-redden' d relic of 
Javelins over 
The jarring breaker, the deep-sea bil- 
low, 
1 Lit. ' the gathering of men.' 



Shaping their way toward Dyflen 1 
again, 
Shamed in their souls. 



Also the brethren, 
King and Atheling, 
Each in his glory, 
Went to his own in his own West- 
Saxonland, 
Glad of the war. 

XIV 

Many a carcase they left to be carrion, 
Many a livid one, many a sallow-skin — 
Left for the white- tail' d eagle to tear 

it, and 
Left for the horny-nibb'd raven to 

rend it, and 
Gave to the garbaging war-hawk to 

gorge it, and 
That gray beast, the wolf of the 

weald. 

xv 

Never had huger 
Slaughter of heroes 
Slain by the sword-edge — 
Such as old writers 
Have writ of in histories — 
Hapt in this isle, since - 
Up from the East hither 
Saxon and Angle from 
Over the broad billow 
Broke into Britain with 
Haughty war-workers who 
Harried the Welshman, when 
Earls that were lured by the 
Hunger of glory gat 
Hold of the land. 

ACHILLES OYER THE TRENCH 
[ILIAD, XVIII. 202] 

So saying, light-foot Iris pass'd away. 

Then rose Achilles dear to Zeus ; and 
round 

The warrior's puissant shoulders Pal- 
las flung 

Her fringed segis, and around his head 

The glorious goddess wreath'd agolden 
cloud, 

i Dublin. 



ACHILLES OVER THE TRENCH 



6i5 




Dante Alighieri 



And from it lighted an all -shining 

flame. 
As when a smoke from a city goes to 

heaven 
Far off from out an island girt by 

foes, 
All day the men contend in grievous 

war 
From their own city, but with set of 

sun 
Their fires flame thickly, and aloft the 

glare 
Flies streaming, if perchance the 

neighbors round 
May see, and sail to help them in the 

war ; 
So from his head the splendor went to 

heaven. 



From wall to dyke he stept, he stood, 
nor join'd 

The Achaeans — honoring his wise mo- 
ther's word — 

There standing, shouted, and Pallas 
far away 

Call'd ; and a boundless panic shook 
the foe. 

For like the clear voice when a trum- 
pet shrills, 

Blown by the fierce beleaguerers of a 
town, 

So rang the clear voice of ^Eakides ; 

And when the brazen cry of iEakides 

Was heard among the Trojans, all 
their hearts 

Were troubled, and the full-maned 
horses whirl'd 



6i6 



BALLADS AND OTHER POEMS 



The chariots backward, knowing 


SIR JOHN FRANKLIN 


griefs at hand ; 




And sheer-astounded were the char- 


ON THE CENOTAPH IN WESTMINSTER 


ioteers 


ABBEY 


To see the dread, unweariable fire 




That always o'er the great Peleion's 


Not here ! the white North has thy 


head 


bones ; and thou, 


Burn'd, for the bright-eyed goddess 


Heroic sailor-soul, 


made it burn. 


Art passing on thine happier voyage 


Thrice from the dyke he sent, his 


now 


mighty shout, 


Toward no earthly pole. 


Thrice backward reel'd the Trojans 




and allies ; 




And there and then twelve of their 


TO DANTE 


noblest died 




Among their spears and chariots. 


(WRITTEN AT REQUEST OF THE FLOR- 




ENTINES) 




King, that hast reign'd six hundred 


TO PRINCESS FREDERICA ON 


years, and grown 


HER MARRIAGE 


In power, and ever growest, since 




thine own 


you that were eyes and light to the 


Fair Florence honoring thy nativity, 


King till he past away 


Thy Florence now the crown of Italy, 


From the darkness of life — 


Hath sought the tribute of a verse 


He saw not his daughter — he blest 


from me, 


her : the blind King sees you 


I, wearing but the garland of a day, 


to-day, 


Cast at thy feet one flower that fades 


He blesses the wife. 


away. 








Edward Fitzgerald 

TIRESIAS AND OTHER POEMS 

DEDICATION 

TO MY GOOD FRIEND 
ROBERT BROWNING 

WHOSE GENIUS AND GENIALITY WILL BEST APPRECIATE WHAT MAY BE BEST 
AND MAKE MOST ALLOWANCE FOR WHAT MAY BE WORST, THIS VOLUME IS 
AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED 



TO E. FITZGERALD 

Old Fitz, who from your suburb 
grange, 

Where once I tarried for a while, 
Glance at the wheeling orb of change, 

And greet it with a kindly smile ; 



Whom yet I see as there you sit 
Beneath your sheltering garden-tree, 

And watch your doves about you flit. 
And plant on shoulder, hand, and 
knee, 

Or on your head their rosy feet, 
As if they knew your diet spares 



6i8 



TIRESIAS AND OTHER POEMS 



Whatever moved in that full sheet 

Let down to Peter at his prayers ; 
Who live on rnilk and meal and grass ; 

And once for ten long weeks I tried 
Your table of Pythagoras, 

And seern'd at first ' a thing enskied,' 
As Shakespeare has it, airy -light 

To float above the ways of men, 
Then fell from that half-spiritual 
height 

Chill'd, till I tasted flesh again 
One night when earth was winter- 
black, 

And all the heavens flash'd in frost : 
And on me, half-asleep, came back 

That wholesome heat the blood had 
lost, 
And set me climbing icy capes 

And glaciers, over which there 
roll"d 
To meet me long-arm'd vines with 
grapes 

Of Eshcol hugeness ; for the cold 
Without, and warmth within me, 
wrought 

To mould the dream ; but none can 
say 
That Lenten fare makes Lenten 
thought 

Who reads your golden Eastern 
lay, 
Than which I know no version done 

In English more divinely well ; 
A planet equal to the sun 

Which cast it, that large infidel 
Your Omar ; and your Omar drew 

Full-handed plaudits from our best 
In modern letters, and from two, 

Old friends outvaluing all the rest, 
Two voices heard on earth no more ; 

But we old friends are still alive, 
And I am nearing seventy -four, 

While you have touch' d at seventy- 
five, 
And so I send a birthday line 

Of greeting ; and my son, who dipt 
In some forgotten book of mine 

With sallow scraps of manuscript, 
And dating many a year ago, 

Has hit on this, which you will take, 
My Fitz, and welcome, as I know, 

Less for its own than for the sake 
Of one recalling gracious times, 

When, in our younger London days, 
You found some merit in my rhymes, 

And I more pleasure in your praise. 



TIRESIAS 

I wish I were as in the days of old, 
While yet the blessed daylight made 

itself 
Ruddy thro' both the roofs of sight, 

and woke 
These eyes, now dull, but then so keen 

• to seek 
The meanings ambush'd under all they 

saw, 
The flight of birds, the flame of sacri- 
fice, 
What omens may foreshadow fate to 

man 
And woman, and the secret of the 

Gods. 
My son, the Gods, despite of human 

prayer, 
Are slower to forgive than human 

kings. 10 

The great God Are's burns in anger 

still 
Against the guiltless heirs of him from 

Tyre, 
Our Cadmus, out of whom thou art, 

who found 
Beside the springs of DircO, smote, and 

still'd 
Thro' all its folds the multitudinous 

beast, 
The dragon, which our trembling fa- 
thers call'd 
The God's own son. 

A tale, that told to me, 
When but thine age, by age as win- 
ter-white 
As mine is now, amazed, but made me 

yearn 
For larger glimpses of that more than 

man 20 

Which rolls the heavens, and lifts and 

lays the deep, 
Yet loves and hates with mortal hates 

and loves, 
And moves unseen among the ways 

of men. 
Then, in my wanderings all the 

lands that lie 
Subjected to the Heliconian ridge 
Have heard this footstep fall, altho' 

my wont 
Was more to scale the highest of the 

heights 
With some strange hope to see the 

nearer God. 



TIRESIAS 



619 



One naked peak — the sister of the 
Sun 

Would climb from out the dark, and 
linger there 30 

To silver all the valleys with her 
shafts — 

There once, but long ago, five-fold thy 
term 

Of years, I lay ; the winds were dead 
for heat ; 

The noonday crag made the hand 
burn ; and sick 

For shadow — not one bush was near 
— I rose, 

Following a torrent till its myriad falls 

Found silence in the hollows under- 
neath. 
There in a secret olive -glade I saw 

Pallas Athene climbing from the bath 

In anger ; yet one glittering foot dis- 
turb' d 40 

The lucid well ; one snowy knee was 
prest 

Against the margin flowers ; a dread- 
ful light 

Came from her golden hair, her golden 
helm 

And all her golden armor on the grass, 

And from her virgin breast, and vir- 
gin eyes 

Remaining fixt on mine, till mine grew 
dark 

For ever, and I heard a voice that 
said, 

1 Henceforth be blind, for thou hast 
seen too much, 

And speak the truth that no man may 
believe/ 
Son; in the hidden world of sight 
that lives 50 

Behind this darkness, I behold her 
still, 

Beyond all work of those who carve 
the stone, 

Beyond all dreams of Godlike woman- 
hood, 

Ineffable beauty, out of whom, at a 
glance, 

And as it were, perforce, upon me 
flash'd 

The power of prophesying — but to 
me 

No power — so chain'd and coupled 
with the curse 

Of blindness and their unbelief who 
heard 



And heard not, when I spake of fa- 
mine, plague, 

Shrine-shattering earthquake, fire, 
flood, thunderbolt, 60 

And angers of the Gods for evil done 

xind expiation lack'd — no power on 
Fate 

Theirs, or mine own ! for when the 
crowd would roar 

For blood, for war, whose issue was 
their doom, 

To cast wise words among the multi- 
tude 

Was flinging fruit to lions ; nor, in 
hours 

Of civil outbreak, when I knew the 
twain 

Would each waste each, and bring on 
both the yoke 

Of stronger states, was mine the voice 
to curb 

The madness of our cities and their 
kings. 70 

Who ever turn'd upon his heel to 
hear 

My warning that the tyranny of one 

Was prelude to the tyranny of all ? 

My counsel that the tyranny of all 

Led backward to the tyranny of one ? 
This power hath work*d no good to 
aught that lives, 

And these blind hands were useless in 
their wars. 

O, therefore, that the unfulflird de- 
sire, 

The grief for ever born from griefs to 
~ be, 

The boundless yearning of the pro- 
phet's heart — Bo 

Could that stand forth, and like a 
statue, rear'd 

To some great citizen, win all praise 
from all 

Who past it, saying, ' That was he ! ' 

In vain ! 

Virtue must shape itself in deed, and 
those 

Whom weakness or necessity have 
cramp'd 

Within themselves, immerging, each, 
his urn 

In his own well, draws solace as 
may. 
Menoeceus, thou hast eyes, and I can 
hear 

Too plainly what full tides of onsel 



620 



TIRESIAS AND OTHER POEMS 



Our seven high gates, and what a 
weight of war 90 

Rides on those ringing axles ! jingle 
of bits, 

Shouts, arrows, tramp of the horn- 
footed horse 

That grind the glebe to powder ! Stony 
showers 

Of that ear-stunning hail of Ar£s crash 

Along the sounding walls. Above, be- 
low, 

Shock after shock, the song-built 
towers and gates 

Reel, bruised and butted with the 
shuddering 

War-thunder of iron rams ; and from 
within 

The city comes a murmur void of joy, 

Lest she be taken captive — maidens, 
wives, 100 

And mothers with their babblers of 
the dawn, 

And oldest age in shadow from the 
night, 

Falling about their shrines before their 
Gods, 

And wailing, ' Save us/ 

And they wail to thee ! 

These eyeless eyes, that cannot see 
thine own, 

See this, that only in thy virtue lies 

The saving of our Thebes ; for, yes- 
ternight, 

To me, the great God Ar£s, whose one 
bliss 

Is war and human sacrifice — himself 

Blood-red from battle, spear and hel- 
met tipt no 

With stormy light as on a mast at 
sea, 

Stood out before a darkness, crying, 
1 Thebes, 

Thy Thebes shall fall and perish, for I 
loathe 

The seed of Cadmus — yet if one of 
these 

By his own hand — if one of these — ' 

My son, 

No sound is breathed so potent to co- 
erce, 

And to conciliate, as their names who 
dare 

For that sweet mother land which 
gave them birth 

Nobly to do, nobly to die. Their 
names, 



Graven on memorial columns, are a 

song 120 

Heard in the future ; few, but more 

than wall 
And rampart, their examples reach a 

hand 
Far thro' all years, and everywhere 

they meet 
And kindle generous purpose, and the 

strength 
To mould it into action pure as theirs. 
Fairer thy fate than mine, if life's 

best end 
Be to end well! and thou refusing 

this, 
Unvenerable will thy memory be 
While men shall move the lips ; but if 

thou dare — 
Thou, one of these, the race of Cad- 
mus — then 130 
No stone is fitted in yon marble girth 
Whose echo shall not tongue thy glo- 
rious doom, 
Nor in. this pavement but shall ring 

thy name 
To every hoof that clangs it, and the 

springs 
Of Dirce laving yonder battle-plain, 
Heard from the roofs by night, will 

murmur thee 
To thine own Thebes, while Thebes 

thro' thee shall stand 
Firm-based with all her Gods. 

The Dragon's cave 
Half hid, they tell me, now in flowing 

vines — 
Where once he dwelt and whence he 

roll'd himself 140 

At dead of night — thou knowest, and 

that smooth rock 
Before it, altar - fashion'd, where of 

late 
The woman-breasted Sphinx, with 

wings drawn back, 
Folded her lion paws, and look'd to 

Thebes. 
There blanch the bones of whom she 

slew, and these 
Mixt with her own, because the fierce 

beast found 
A wiser than herself, and dash'd her- 
self 
Dead in her rage ; but thou art wise 

enough, 
Tho' young, to love thy wiser, blunt 

the curse 



THE WRECK 



621 



Of Pallas, hear, and tho' I speak the 
truth 150 

Believe I speak it, let thine own hand 
strike 

Thy youthful pulses into rest and 
quench 

The red God's anger, fearing not to 
plunge 

Thy torch of life in darkness, rather 
— thou 

Rejoicing that the sun, the moon, the 
stars 

Send no such light upon the ways of 
men 

As one great deed. 

Thither, my son, and there 

Thou, that hast never known the em- 
brace of love, 

Offer thy maiden life. 

This useless hand ! 

I felt one warm tear fall upon it. 
Gone ! 160 

He will achieve his greatness. 

But for me, 

I would that I were gather'd to my 
rest, 

And mingled with the famous kings 
of old, 

On whom about their ocean-islets flash 

The faces of the Gods — the wise 
man's word, 

Here trampled by the populace under- 
foot, 

There crown' d with worship — and 
these eyes will find 

The men I knew, and watch the char- 
iot whirl 

About the goal again, and hunters 
race 

The shadowy lion, and the warrior- 
kings, 170 

In height and prowess more than hu- 
man, strive 

Again for glory, while the golden lyre 

Is ever sounding in heroic ears 

Heroic hymns, and every way the 
vales 

Wind, clouded with the grateful in- 
cense-fume 

Of those who mix all odor to the Gods 

On one far height in one far-shining 
fire. 



1 One height and one far-shining fire ! ' 
And while I fancied that my friend 



For this brief idyll would require 180 

A less diffuse and opulent end, 
And would defend his judgment well, 

If I should deem it over nice — 
The tolling of his funeral bell 

Broke on my Pagan Paradise, 
And mixt the dream of classic times, 

And all the phantoms of the dream, 
With present grief, and made the 
rhymes, 

That miss'd his living welcome, seem 
Like would-be guests an hour too late, 

Who down the highway moving 
on 
With easy laughter find the gate 192 

Is bolted, and the master gone. 
Gone into darkness, that full light 

Of friendship ! past, in sleep, away 
By night, into the deeper night ! 

The deeper night ? A clearer day 
Than our poor twilight dawn on 
earth — 

If night, what barren toil to be ! 
What life, so maim'd by night, were 
worth 200 

Our living out ? Not mine to me 
Remembering all the golden hours 

Now silent, and so many dead, 
And him the last ; and laying flowers, 

This wreath, above his honor'd head, 
And praying that, when I from hence 

Shall fade with him into the un- 
known, 
My close of earth's experience 

May prove as peaceful as his own. 



THE WRECK 



Hide me, mother! my fathers be- 
long'd to the church of old, 

I am driven by storm and sin and 
death to the ancient fold, 

I cling to the Catholic Cross once 
more, to the Faith that saves. 

My brain is full of the crash of wrecks, 
and the roar of waves, 

My life itself is a wreck, I have sul- 
lied a noble name, 

I am flung from the rushing tide of 
the world as a waif of shame, 

I am roused by the wail of a child, 
and awake to a livid light, 

And a ghastlier face than ever has 
haunted a grave by night. 



622 



TIRESIAS AND OTHER POEMS 



I would hide from the storm without, 

I would flee from the storm 

within, 
I would make my life one prayer for 

a soul that died in his sin, 10 
I was the tempter, mother, and mine 

was the deeper fall ; 
I will sit at your feet, I will hide my 

face, I will tell you all. 



He that they gave me to, mother, a 

heedless and innocent bride — 
I never have wrong'd his heart, I 

have only wounded his pride — 
Spain in his blood and the Jew — dark- 
visaged, stately and tall — 
A princelier-looking man never stept 

thro' a prince's hall. 
And who, when his anger was kin- 
dled, would venture to give 

him the nay ? 
And a man men fear is a man to be 

loved by the women, they say. 
And I could have loved him too" if the 

blossom can dote on the blight, 
Or the young green leaf rejoice in the 

frost that sears it at night ; 20 
He would open the books that I prized, 

and toss them away with a yawn, 
Repell'd by the magnet of Art to the 

which my nature was drawn, 
The word of the Poet by whom the 

deeps of the world are stirr'd, 
The music that robes it in language 

beneath and beyond the word ! 
My Shelley would fall from my hands 

when he cast a contemptuous 

glance 
From where he was poring over his 

Tables of Trade and Finance ; 
My hands, when I heard him coming, 

would drop from the chords or 

the keys, 
But ever I fail'd to please him, how- 
ever I strove to please — 
All day long far-off in the cloud of the 

city, and there 29 

Lost, head and heart, in the chances 

of dividend, consol, and share — 
And at home if I sought for a kindly 

caress, being woman and weak, 
His formal kiss fell chill as a flake of 

snow on the cheek. 
And so, when I bore him a girl, when 

I held it aloft in my joy, 



He look'd at it coldly, and said to me, 

'Pity it isn't a boy.' 
The one thing given me, to love and 

to live for, glanced at in scorn ! 
The child that I felt I could die for — 

as if she were basely born ! 
I had lived a wild-flower life, I was 

planted now in a tomb ; 
The daisy will shut to the shadow, I 

closed my heart to the gloom ; 
I threw myself all abroad — I would 

play my part with the young 
By the low foot-lights of the world — 

and I caught the wreath that 

was flung. 40 



Mother, I have not — however their 

tongues may have babbled of 

me — 
Sinn'd thro' an animal vileness, for all 

but a dwarf was he, 
And all but a hunchback too ; and I 

look'd at him, first, askance, 
With pity — not he the knight for an 

amorous girl's romance ! 
Tho' wealthy enough to have bask'd 

in the light of a dowerless 

smile, 
Having lands at home and abroad in a 

rich West-Indian isle ; 
But I came on him once at a ball, the 

heart of a listening crowd — 
Why, what a brow was there ! he was 

seated — speaking aloud 
To women, the flower of the time, and 

men at the helm of state — 
Flowing with easy greatness and 

touching on all things great, 50 
Science, philosophy, song — till I felt 

myself ready to weep 
For I knew not what, when I heard 

that voice, — as mellow and deep 
As a psalm by a mighty master and 

peal'd from an organ, — roll * 
Rising and falling — for, mother, the 

voice was the voice of the soul ; 
And the sun of the soul' made day in 

the dark of his wonderful eyes. 
Here was the hand that would help 

me, would heal me — the heart 

that was wise ! 
And he, poor man, when he learnt that 

I hated the ring I wore, 
He helpt me with death, and he heal'd 

me with sorrow for evermore. 



THE WRECK 



623 



For I broke the bond. That day my 
nurse had brought me the child. 

The small sweet face was flush'd, but 
it coo'd to the mother and 
smiled. 60 

'Anything ailing,' I ask' d her, 'with 
baby ? ' She shook her head, 

And the motherless mother kiss'd it, 
and turn'd in her haste and fled. 



Low warm winds had gently breathed 

us away from the land — 
Ten long sweet summer days upon 

deck, sitting hand in hand — 
When he clothed a naked mind with 

the wisdom and wealth of his 

own, 
And I bow'd myself down as a slave 

to his intellectual throne, 
When he coin'd into English gold 

some treasure of classical song, 
When he flouted a statesman's error, 

or flamed at a public wrong, 
When he rose as it were on the wings 

of an eagle beyond me, and 

past 
Over the range and the change of the 

world from the first to the 

last, 70 

When he spoke of his tropical home in 

the canes by the purple tide, 
And the high star-crowns of his palms 

on the deep-wooded mountain- 
side, 
And cliffs all robed in lianas that 

dropt to the brink of his bay, 
And trees like the towers of a minster, 

the sons of a winterless day. 
4 Paradise there ! ' so he said, but I 

seem'd in Paradise then 
With the first great love I had felt for 

the first and greatest of men ; 
- Ten long days of summer and sin — if 

it must be so — 
But days of a larger light than I ever 

again shall know — 
Days that will glimmer, I fear, thro' 

life to my latest breath ; 
' No frost there,' so he said, ' as in tru- 
est love no death.' 80 



Mother, one morning a bird with a 
warble plaintively sweet 



Perch'd on the shrouds, and then fell 

fluttering down at my feet ; 
I took it, he made it a cage, we 

fondled it, Stephen and I, 
But it died, and I thought of the child 

for a moment, I scarce know 

why. 



But if sin be sin, not inherited fate, as 

many will say, 
My sin to my desolate little one found 

me at sea on a day, 
When her orphan wail came borne in 

the shriek of a growing wind, 
And a voice rang out in the thunders 

of ocean and heaven, ' Thou 

hast sinn'd.' 
And down in the cabin were we, for 

the towering crest of the tides 
Plunged on the vessel and swept in a 

cataract off from her sides, 90 
And ever the great storm grew with a 

howl and a hoot of the blast 
In the rigging, voices of hell — then 

came the crash of the mast. 
' The wages of sin is death,' and there 

I began to weep, 
' I am the Jonah, the crew should cast 

me into the deep, 
For, ah, God ! what a heart was mine 

to forsake her even for you ! ' 
'Never the heart among women,' he 

said, ' more tender and true.' 
' The heart ! not a mother's heart, 

when I left my darling alone. ' 
' Comfort yourself, for the heart of 

the father will care for his own.' 
1 The heart of the father will spurn 

her,' I cried, 'for the sin of the 

wife, 
The cloud of the mother's shame will 

enfold her and darken her 

life.' 100 

Then his pale face twitch'd. ' O Ste- 
phen, I love you, I love you, 

and yet ' — 
As I lean'd away from his arms — 

' would God, we had never met ! ' 
And he spoke not — only the storm ; 

till after a little, I yearn'd 
For his voice again, and he call'd to 

me, ' Kiss me ! ' and there — as 

I turn'd — 
' The heart, the heart ! ' I kiss'd him, 

I clung to the sinking form, 



624 



TIRESIAS AND OTHER POEMS 



And the storm went roaring above us, 
and he — was out of the storm. 



And then, then, mother, the ship stag- 
ger' d under a thunderous shock, 
That shook us asunder, as if she had 

struck and crash' d on a rock ; 
For a huge sea smote every soul from 

the decks of the Falcon but one ; 
All of them, all but the man that was 

lash'd to the helm had gone ; no 
And I fell — and the storm and the 

days went by, but I knew no 

more — 
Lost myself — lay like the dead by the 

dead on the cabin floor, 
Dead to the death beside me, and lost 

to the loss that was mine, 
With a dim dream, now and then, of a 

hand giving bread and wine, 
Till I woke from the trance, and the 

ship stood still, and the skies 

were blue, 
But the face I had known, O mother, 

was not the face that I knew. 

IX 

The strange misfeaturing mask that I 

saw so amazed me that I 
Stumbled on deck, half mad. I would 

fling myself over and die ! 
But one — he was waving a flag — the 

one man left on the wreck — 
1 Woman,' — he graspt at my arm, — 

1 stay there ! ' — I crouch'd upon 

deck — 120 

' We are sinking, and yet there's hope: 

look yonder,' he cried, ' a sail ! ' 
In a tone so rough that I broke into 

passionate tears, and the wail 
Of a beaten babe, till I saw that a boat 

was nearing us — then 
All on a sudden I thought, I shall look 

on the child again. 



They lower'd me down the side, and 
there in the boat I lay 

With sad eyes fixt on the lost sea- 
home, as we glided away, 

And I sigh' d as the low dark hull dipt 
under the smiling main, 

1 Had I stay'd with Mm, I had now — 
with Mm — been out of my 
pain.' 



They took us aboard. The crew were 
gentle, the captain kind, 

But /was the lonely slave of an often- 
wandering mind ; 130 

For whenever a rougher gust might 
tumble a stormier wave, 

'O Stephen,' I moan'd, ' I am coming 
to thee in thine ocean-grave.' 

And again, when a balmier breeze 
cuiTd over a peacefuller sea, 

I found myself moaning again, ' O 
child, I am coming to thee.' 

XII 

The broad white brow of the isle — 

that bay with the color'd sand — 
Rich was the rose of sunset there, as 

we drew to the land ; 
All so quiet the ripple would hardly 

blanch into spray 
At the feet of the cliff; and I pray'd 

— ' My child,' — for I still could 

pray, — 
' May her life be as blissfully calm, be 

never gloom'd by the curse 139 
Of a sin, not hers ! ' 

Was it well with the child ? 

I wrote to the nurse 
Who had borne my flower on her hire- 
ling heart ; and an answer came 
Not from the nurse — nor yet to the 

wife — to her maiden name ! 
I shook as I open'd the letter — I knew 

that hand too well — 
And from it a scrap, dipt out of the 

* deaths ' in a paper, fell. 
1 Ten long sweet summer days' of 

fever, and want of care ! 
And gone — that day of the storm — 

O mother, she came to me 

there ! 



DESPAIR 

1 
Is it you, that preach'd in the chapel 

there looking over the sand ? 
Follow'd us too that night, and dogg'd 

us, and drew me to land ? 

11 
What did I feel that night ? You are 

curious. How should I tell ? 
Does it matter so much what I felt? 



DESPAIR 



625 






You rescued me — yet — was it 
well 

That you came unwish'd for, uncall'd, 
between me and the deep and 
my doom, 

Three days since, three more dark days 
of the Godless gloom 

Of a life without sun, without health, 
without hope, without any de- 
light 

In anything here upon earth ? but, ah, 
God ! that night, that night 

"When the rolling eyes of the light- 
house there on the fatal neck 

Of land running out into rock — they 
had saved many hundreds from 
wreck — 10 

Glared on our way toward death, I 
remember I thought, as we past, 

Does it matter how many they saved ? 
we are all of us wreck'd at 
last — 

* Do you fear ? ' and there came thro' 
the roar of the breaker a whis- 
per, a breath, 



' Fear ? am I not with you ? I am 
frighted at life, not death.' 



And the suns of the limitless universe 
sparkled and shone in the sky, 

Flashing with fires as of God, but we 
knew that their light was a lie — 

Bright as with deathless hope — but, 
however they sparkled and 
shone, 

The dark little worlds running round 
them were worlds of woe like 
our own — 

No soul in the heaven above, no soul 
on the earth below, 

A fiery scroll written over with lamen- 
tation and woe. 20 



IV 



See, 



we were nursed in the drear 
nightfold of your fatalist creed, 
And we turn'd to the growing dawn, 
we had hoped for a dawn in- 
deed, 




■ The lost sea-hoine ' 



626 



TIRESIAS AND OTHER POEMS 



When the light of a sun that was com- 
ing would scatter the ghosts of 
the past, 

And the cramping creeds that had 
madden'd the peoples would 
vanish at last, 

And we broke away from the Christ, 
our human brother and friend, 

For He spoke, or it seem'd that He 
spoke, of a hell without help, 
without end. 



Hoped for a dawn, and it came, but 
the promise had faded away ; 

We had past from a cheerless night to 
the glare of a drearier day ; 

He is only a cloud and a smoke who 
was once a pillar of fire, 

The guess of a worm in the dust and 
the shadow of its desire — 30 

Of a worm as it writhes in a world of 
the weak trodden down by the 
strong, 

Of a dying worm in a world, all mas- 
sacre, murder, and wrong. 



O, we poor orphans of nothing — 

alone on that lonely shore — 
Born of the brainless Nature who knew 

not that which she bore ! 
Trusting no longer that earthly flower 

would be heavenly fruit — 
Come from the brute, poor souls — no 

souls — and to die with the 

brute — 



Nay, but I am not claiming your pity ; 

I know you of old — 
Small pity for those that have ranged 

from the narrow warmth of 

your fold, 
Where you bawl'd the dark side of 

your faith and a God of eternal 



Till you flung us back on ourselves, 
and the human heart, and the 
Age. 40 



VIII 



But pity — the Pagan held it a vice 
— was in her and in me, 

Helpless, taking the place of the pity- 
ing God that should be ! 



Pity for all that aches in the grasp of 

an idiot power, 
And pity for our own selves on an 

earth that bore not a flower ; 
Pity for all that suffers on land or in 

air or the deep, 
And pity for our own selves till we 

long'd for eternal sleep. 

IX 

'Lightly step over the sands! the 

waters — you hear them call ! 
Life with its anguish, and horrors, and 

errors — away with it all ! ' 
And she laid her hand in my own — 

she was always loyal and 

sweet — 
Till the points of the foam in the 

dusk came playing about our 

feet. 50 

There was a strong sea-current would 

sweep us out to the main. 
'Ah, God!' tho' I felt as I spoke I 

was taking the name in vain — 
' Ah, God ! ' and we turn'd to each 

other, we kiss'd, we embraced, 

she and I, 
Knowing the love we were used to be- 
lieve everlasting would die. 
We had read their know - nothing 

books, and we lean'd to the 

darker side — 
Ah, God, should we find Him, per- 
haps, perhaps, if we died, if we 

died ; 
We never had found Him on earth, 

this earth is a fatherless hell — 
'Dear love, for ever and ever, for 

ever and ever farewell ! ' 
Never a cry so desolate, not since the 

world began, 
Never a kiss so sad, no, not since the 

coming of man ! 60 



But the blind wave cast me ashore, 

and you saved me, a valueless 

life. 
Not a grain of gratitude mine ! You 

have parted the man from the 

wife. 
I am left alone on the land, she is all 

alone in the sea ; 
If a curse meant aught, I would 

curse you for not having let 

me be. 



DESPAIR 



627 



Visions of youth — for my brain was 
drunk with the water, it seems ; 

I had past into perfect quiet at length 
out of pleasant dreams, 

And the transient trouble of drown- 
ing — what was it when match'd 
with the pains 

Of the hellish heat of a wretched life 
rushing back thro' the veins ? 

XII 

Why should I live ? one son had 

forged on his father and fled, 
And if I believed in a God, I would 

thank Him, the other is dead, 70 
And there was a baby-girl, that had 

never look'd on the light ; 
Happiest she of us all, for she past 

from the night to the night. 

XIII 

But the crime, if a crime, of her 

eldest - born, her glory, her 

boast, 
Struck hard at the tender heart of the 

mother, and broke it almost ; 
Tho', glory and shame dying out for 

ever in endless time, 
Does it matter so much whether 

crown' d for a virtue, or hang'd 

for a crime ? 

XIV 

And ruin'd by 7iim, by Mm, I stood 
there, naked, amazed 

In a world of arrogant opulence, fear'd 
myself turning crazed, 

And I would not be mock'd in a mad- 
house ! and she, the delicate 
wife, 

With a grief that could only be cured, 
if cured, by the surgeon's 
knife, — 80 



Why should we bear with an hour of 
torture, a moment of pain, 

If every man die for ever, if all his 
griefs are in vain, 

And the homeless planet at length will 
be wheel'd thro' the silence of 
space, 

Motherless evermore of an ever- vanish- 
ing race, 

When the worm shall have writhed its 



last, and its last brother-worm 
will have fled 
From the dead fossil skull that is left 
in the rocks of an earth that is 
dead? 



Have I crazed myself over their hor- 
rible infidel writings ? O, yes, 

For these are the new dark ages, you 
see, of the popular press, 

When the bat comes out of his cave, 
and the owls are whooping at 
noon, 

And Doubt is the lord of this dunghill 
and crows to the sun and the 
moon, 90 

Till the sun and the moon of our sci- 
ence are both of them turn'd 
into blood, 

And Hope will have broken her heart, 
running after a shadow of good ; 

For their knowing and know-nothing 
books are scatter' d from hand to 
hand — 

We have knelt in your know-all cha- 
pel too, looking over the sand. 

XVII 

What ! I should call on that Infinite 
Love that has served us so well ? 

Infinite cruelty rather that made ever- 
lasting hell, 

Made us, foreknew us, foredoom'd us, 
and does what he will with his 
own ; 

Better our dead brute mother who 
never has heard us groan ! 

XVIII 

Hell ? if the souls of men were immor- 
tal, as men have been told, 

The lecher would cleave to his lusts, 
and the miser would yearn for 
his gold, 100 

And so there were hell for ever ! but 
were there a God, as you say. 

His love would have power over hell 
till it utterly vanish'd away. 

\ix 
Ah, yet — I have had some glimmer, 

at times, in my gloomiest woe. 
Of a God behind all — after all — the 

great God, for aught that I 

know ; 



628 



TIRESIAS AND OTHER POEMS 



But the God of love and of hell 

together — they cannot be 

thought, 
If there be such a God, may the Great 

God curse him and bring him to 

nought ! 

xx 

Blasphemy ! whose is the fault ? is it 

mine ? for why would you save 
A madman to vex you with wretched 

words, who is best in his grave ? 
Blasphemy ! ay, why not, being 

damn'd beyond hope of grace ? 
O, would I were yonder with her, and 

away from your faith and your 

face ! no 

Blasphemy ! true ! I have scared you 

pale with my scandalous talk, 
But the blasphemy to my mind lies all 

in the way that you walk. 

XXI 

Hence ! she is gone ! can I stay ? can 

I breathe divorced from the 

past ? 
You needs must have good lynx-eyes 

if I do not escape you at last. 
Our orthodox coroner doubtless will 

find it a felo-de-se, 
And the stake and the cross-road, fool, 

if you will, does it matter to 

me? 

THE ANCIENT SAGE 

A thousand summers ere the time of 

Christ, 
From out his ancient city came a Seer 
Whom one that loved and honor' d 

him, and yet 
Was no disciple, richly garb'd, but 

worn 
From wasteful living, follow' d — in 

his hand 
A scroll of verse — till that old man 

before 
A cavern whence an affluent fountain 

pour'd 
From darkness into daylight, turn'd 

and spoke : 

' This wealth of waters might but 
seem to draw 
From yon dark cave, but, son, the 
source is higher, 10 



Yon summit half -a-league in air — and 

higher 
The cloud that hides it — higher still 

the heavens 
Whereby the cloud was moulded, and 

whereout 
The cloud descended. Force is from 

the heights. 
I am wearied of our city, son, and go 
To spend my one last year among the 

hills. 
What hast thou there ? Some death- 
song for the Ghouls 
To make their banquet relish ? let me 

read. 

1 "How far thro' all the bloom and brake 

That nightingale is heard ! 20 

What power but the bird's could make 

This music in the bird ? 
How summer-bright are yonder skies, 

And earth as fair in hue ! 
And yet what sign of aught that lies 

Behind the green and blue ? 
But man to-day is fancy's fool 

As man hath ever been. 
The nameless Power, or Powers, that rule 

Were never heard or seen." 30 

If thou wouldst hear the Nameless, 
and wilt dive 

Into the temple- cave of thine own self, 

There, brooding by the central altar, 
thou 

May st haply learn the Nameless hath 
a voice, 

By which thou wilt abide, if thou be 
wise, 

As if thou knewest, tho' thou canst 
not know ; 

For Knowledge is the swallow on the 
lake 

That sees and stirs the surface-shadow 
there 

But never yet hath dipt into the 
abysm, 

The abysm of all abysms, beneath, 
within 40 

The blue of sky and sea, the green of 
earth, 

And in the million-millionth of a grain 

Which cleft and cleft again for ever- 
more, 

And ever vanishing, never vanishes, 

To me, my son, more mystic than my- 
self, 

Or even than the Nameless is to me. 



THE ANCIENT SAGE 



629 



' And when thou sendest thy free 
soul thro' heaven, 

Nor understandest bound nor bound- 
lessness, 

Thou seest the Nameless of the hun- 
dred names. 
1 And if the Nameless should with- 
draw from all • 50 

Thy frailty counts most real, all thy 
world 

Might vanish like thy shadow in the 
dark. 



'"And since — from when this earth be- 
gan— 

The Nameless never came 
Among us, never spake with man, 

And never named the Name " — 



Thou canst not prove the Nameless, 

O my son, 
Nor canst thou prove the world thou 

movest in, 
Thou canst not prove that thou art 

body alone, 
Nor canst thou prove that thou art 

spirit alone, 60 

Nor canst thou prove that thou art 

both in one. 
Thou canst not prove thou art im- 
mortal, no, 
Nor yet that thou art mortal — nay, 

my son, 
Thou canst not prove that I, who 

speak with thee, 
Am not thyself in converse with thy- 
self, 
For nothing worthy proving can be 

proven, 
Nor yet disproven. Wherefore thou 

be wise, 
Cleave ever to the sunnier side of 

doubt, 
And cling to Faith beyond the forms 

of Faith I 
She reels not in the storm of warring 

words, 70 

She brightens at the clash of "Yes" 

and "No," 
She sees the best that glimmers thro' 

the worst, 
She feels the sun is hid but for a night, 
She spies the summer thro' the winter 

bud, 
She tastes the fruit before the blossom 

falls, 



She hears the lark within the songless 

egg, 
She finds the fountain where they 
wail'd "Mirage ! " 



' "What Power ? aught akin to Mind, 

The mind in me and you ? 
Or power as of the Gods gone blind 

Who see not what thev do ?" 



80 



But some in yonder city hold, my 
son, 

That none but gods could build this 
house of ours, 

So beautiful, vast, various, so beyond 

All work of man, yet, like all work 
of man, 

A beauty with defect — till That which 
knows, 

And is not known, but felt thro' what 
we feel 

Within ourselves is highest, shall de- 
scend 

On this half-deed, and shape it at the 
last 

According to the Highest in the High- 
est. 90 

1 %t What Power but the Years that make 

And break the vase of clay, 
And stir the sleeping earth, and wake 

The bloom that fades away ? 
What rulers but the Days and Hours 

That cancel weal with woe, 
And wind the front of youth with flowers, 

And cap our age with snow ?" 

The days and hours are ever glancing 

by, 

And seem to flicker past thro' sun 

and shade, 100 

Or short, or long, as Pleasure leads, 

or Pain, 
But with the Nameless is nor day nor 

hour ; 
Tho' we, thin minds, who creep from 

thought to thought, 
Break into "Thens" and "Whens" 

the Eternal Now — 
This double seeming of the single 

world ! — 
My words are like the babblings in a 

dream 
Of nightmare, when the babblings 

break the dream. 
But thou be wise in this dream-world 

of ours, 



630 



TIRESIAS AND OTHER POEMS 



Nor take thy dial for thy deity, 
But make the passing shadow serve 
thy will. no 

* " The years that made the stripling wise 

Undo 'their work again, 
And leave him, blind of heart and eyes, 

The last and least of men ; 
Who clings to earth, and once would dare 

Hell-heat or Arctic cold, 
And now one breath of cooler air 

Would loose him from his hold. 
His winter chills him to the root, 

He withers marrow and mind; 120 

The kernel of the shrivell'd fruit 

Is jutting thro' the rind ; 
The tiger spasms tear his chest, 

The palsy wags his head; 
The wife, the sons, who love him best 

Would fain that he were dead ; 
The griefs by which he once was wrung 

Were never worth the while " — 

Who knows? or whether this earth- 
narrow life 

Be yet but yolk, and forming in the 
shell ? 130 

c "The shaft of scorn that once had stung 
But wakes a dotard smile." 

The placid gleam of sunset after storm ! 

'"The statesman's brain that sway'd the 
past 

Is feebler than his knees; 
The passive sailor wrecks at last 

In ever-silent seas; 
The warrior hath forgot his arms, 

The learned all his lore; 
The changing market frets or charms 140 

The merchant's hope no more: 
The prophet's beacon burn'd in vain, 

And now is lost in cloud ; 
The plowman passes, bent with pain, 

To mix with what he plow'd; 
The poet whom his age would quote 

As heir of endless fame — 
He knows not even the book he wrote, 

Not even his own name. 
For man has overlived his day, 150 

And, darkening in the light, 
Scarce feels the senses break away 

To mix with ancient Night." 

The shell must break before the bird 
can fly. 

* " The years that when my youth began 

Had set the lily and rose 
By all my ways where'er they ran, 
Have ended' mortal foes; 



My rose of love for ever gone, 

My lily of truth and trust — 160 

They made her lily and rose in one, 

And changed her into dust. 
rose-tree planted in my grief, 

And growing on her tomb, 
Her dust is greening in your leaf, 

Her blood is in your bloom. 
slender lily waving there, 

And laughing back the light, 
In vain you tell me 'Earth is fair' 

When all is dark as night." 170 

My son, the world is dark with griefs 

and graves, 
So dark that men cry out against the 

heavens. 
Who knows but that the darkness is 

in man ? 
The doors of Night may be the gates 

of Light ; 
For wert thou born or blind or deaf, 

and then 
Suddenly heard, how wouldst thou 

glory in all 
The splendors and the voices of the 

world ! 
And we, the poor earth's dying race, 

and yet 
No phantoms, watching from a phan- 
tom shore 
Await the last and largest sense to 

make 180 

The phantom walls of this illusion 

fade, 
And show us that the world is wholly 

fair. 

' "But vain the tears for darken'd years 

As laughter over wine, 
And vain the laughter as the tears, 

brother, mine or thine, 
For all that laugh, and all that weep 

And all that breathe are one 
Slight ripple on the boundless deep 

That moves, and all is gone." 190 

But that one ripple on the boundless 

deep 
Feels that the deep is boundless, and 

itself 
For ever changing form, but evermore 
One with the boundless motion of the 

deep. 

* "Yet wine and laughter, friends! and set 

The lamps alight, and call 
For golden music, and forget 

The darkness of the pall." 



THE ANCIENT SAGE 



631 






If utter darkness closed the day, my 

son — 
But earth's dark forehead flings 

athwart the heavens 200 

Her shadow crown'd with stars — and 

yonder — out 
To northward — some that never set, 

but pass 
From sight and night to lose them- 
selves in day. 
I hate the black negation of the bier, 
And wish the dead, as happier than 

ourselves 
And higher, having climb'd one step 

beyond 
Our village miseries, might be borne 

in white 
To burial or to burning, hymn'd from 

hence 
With songs in praise of death, and 

crown'd with flowers! 

' " worms and maggots of to-day 210 

Without their hope of wings! " 

But louder than thy rhyme the silent 

Word 
.Of that world-prophet in the heart of 

man. 

1 "Tho' some have gleams, or so they say, 
Of more than mortal things." 

To-day ? but what of yesterday ? for 
oft 

On me, when boy, there came what 
then I call'd, 

Who knew no books and no philoso- 
phies, 

In my boy-phrase, ''The Passion of 
the Past." 

The first gray streak of earliest sum- 
mer-dawn, 220 

The last long strife of waning crimson 
gloom, 

As if the late and early were but one — 

A height, a broken grange, a grove, 
a flower 

Had murmurs, "Lost and gone, and 
lost and gone ! " 

A breath, a whisper — some divine 
farewell — 

Desolate sweetness — far and far 
away — 

What had he loved, what had he lost, 
the boy ? 



I know not, and I speak of what has 
been. 
1 And more, my son ! for more than 
once when I 

Sat all alone, revolving in myself 230 

The word that is the symbol of my- 
self, 

The mortal limit of the Self was 
loosed, 

And past into the Nameless, as a cloud 

Melts into heaven. I touch'd my 
limbs, the limbs 

Were strange, not mine — and yet no 
shade of doubt, 

But utter clearness, and thro' loss of 
self 

The gain of such large life as match'd 
with ours 

Were sun to spark — unshadowable in 
words, 

Themselves but shadows of a shadow- 
world. 

' " And idle gleams will come and go, 240 
But still the clouds remain; " 

The clouds themselves are children of 
the Sun, 

' " And Night and Shadow rule below • 

When only Day should reign." 

And Day and Night are children of 

the Sun. 
And idle gleams to thee are light to 

me. 
Some say, the Light was father of the 

Night, 
And some, the Night was father of 

the Light, 
No night, no clay ! — I touch thy 

world again — 
No ill, no good ! — such counter-terms, 

my son, 250 

Are border - races, holding each its 

own 
By endless war. But night enough 

is there 
In yon dark city. Get thee back ; and 

since 
The key to that weird casket, which 

for thee 
But holds a skull, is neither thine nor 

mine, 
But in the hand of what is more than 

man, 



632 



TIRESIAS AND OTHER POEMS 



Or in man's hand when man is more 

than man, 
Let be thy wail, and help thy fellow- 
men, 
And make thy gold thy vassal, not 

thy king, 
And fling free alms into the beggar's 

bowl, 260 

And send the day into the darken' d 

heart ; 
Nor list for guerdon in the voice of 

men, 
A dying echo from a falling wall ; 
Nor care — for Hunger hath the evil 

eye 
To vex the noon with fiery gems, or 

fold 
Thy presence in the silk of sumptuous 

looms ; 
Nor roll thy viands on a luscious 

tongue, 
Nor drown thyself with flies in hon- 
eyed wine ; 
Nor thou be rageful, like a handled 

bee, 
And lose thy life by usage of thy 

sting ; 270 

Nor harm an* adder thro' the lust for 

harm, 
•Nor make a snail's horn shrink for 

wantonness. 
And more — think well ! Do-well will 

follow thought, 
And in the fatal sequence of this 

world 
An evil thought may soil thy children's 

blood ; 
But curb the beast would cast thee in 

the mire, 
And leave the hot swamp of voluptu- 
ousness, 
A cloud between the Nameless and 

thyself, 
And lay thine uphill shoulder to the 

wheel, 
And climb the Mount of Blessing, 

whence, if thou 280 

Look higher, then — perchance — thou 

mayest — beyond 
A hundred ever-rising mountain lines, 
And past the range of Night and 

Shadow — see 
The high-heaven dawn of more than 

mortal day 
Strike on the Mount of Vision ! 

So, farewell.' 



THE FLIGHT 



Are you sleeping ? have you forgot- 
ten? do not sleep, my sister 
dear ! 

How can you sleep ? the morning 
brings the day I hate and fear ; 

The cock has crow'd already once, he 
crows before his time ; 

Awake ! the creeping glimmer steals, 
the hills are white with rime. 

n 

Ah, clasp me in your arms, sister, ah, 

fold me to your breast ! 
Ah, let me weep my fill once more, 

and cry myself to rest ! 
To rest ? to rest and wake no more 

were better rest for me, 
Than to waken every morning to that 

face I loathe to see. 



I envied your sweet slumber, all night 

so calm you lay ; 
The night was calm, the morn is calm, 

and like another day ; 10 

But I could wish yon moaning sea 

would rise and burst the shore, 
And such a whirlwind blow these 

woods as never blew before. 



For, one by one, the stars went down 

across the gleaming pane, 
And project after project rose, and all 

of them were vain ; 
The blackthorn-blossom fades and falls 

and leaves the bitter sloe, 
The hope I catch at vanishes, and 

youth is turn'd to woe. 



Come, speak a little comfort ! all 

night I pray'd w T ith tears, 
And yet no comfort came to me, and 

now the morn appears, 
When he will tear me from your side, 

who bought me for his slave ; 
This father pays his debt with me, 

and weds me to my grave. 20 

VI 

What father, this or mine, was he, 
who, on that summer day 



THE FLIGHT 



633 



When I had fallen from off the crag 

we clamber' d up in play, 
Found, fear'd me dead, and groan'd, 

and took and kiss'd me, and 

again 
He kiss'd me ; and I loved him then ; 

he was my father then. 

VII 

No father now, the tyrant vassal of a 

tyrant vice ! 
The godless Jephtha vows his child 

. . .to one cast of the dice. 
These ancient woods, this Hall at 

last will go — perhaps have 

gone. 
Except his own meek daughter yield 

her life, heart, soul to one — 



VIII 



O, 



To one who knows I scorn him. 

the formal mocking bow, 
The cruel smile, the courtly phrase 

that masks his malice now — 30 
But often in the sidelong eyes a gleam 

of all things ill — 
It is not Love but Hate that weds a 

bride against her will ; 



Hate, that would pluck from this 
true breast the locket that I 
wear, 

The precious crystal into which I 
braided Edwin's hair ! 

The love that keeps this heart alive 
beats on it night and day — 

One golden curl, his golden gift, be- 
fore he past away. 



He left us weeping in the woods ; his 

boat was on the sand ; 
How slowly down the rocks he went, 

how loth to quit the land ! 
And all my life was darken'd, as I 

saw the white sail run, 
And darken, up that lane of light into 

the setting sun. 40 

XI 

How often have we watch'd the sun 
fade from us thro' the West, 

And follow Edwin to those isles, those 
Islands of the Blest ! 



Is he not there ? would I were there, 
the friend, the bride, the wife, 

With him, where summer never dies, 
with Love, the sun of life ! 

XII 

O, would I were in Edwin's arms — 

once more — to feel his breath 
Upon my cheek — on Edwin's ship, 

with Edwin, even in death, 
Tho' all about the shuddering wreck 

the death- white sea should rave, 
Or if lip were laid to lip on the pillows 

of the wave ! 



Shall I take him? I kneel with Mm? 

I swear and swear forsworn 
To love him most whom most I loathe, 

to honor whom I scorn ? 50 

The Fiend would yell, the grave would 

yawn, my mother's ghost would 

rise — 
To lie, to lie — in God's own house — 

the blackest of all lies ! 

XIV 

Why — rather than that hand in mine, 

tho' every pulse would freeze, 
I 'd sooner fold an icy corpse dead of 

some foul disease. 
Wed him ? I will not wed him, let 

them spurn me from the doors, 
And I will wander till I die about the 

barren moors. 



The dear, mad bride who stabb'd 

her bridegroom on her bridal 

night —r 
If mad, then I am mad, but sane if she 

were in the right. 
My father's madness makes me mad — 

but words are only words ! 
I am not mad, not yet, not quite — 

There ! listen how the birds 60 

XVI 

Begin to warble yonder in the budding 
orchard trees ! 

The lark has past from earth to heaven 
upon the morning breeze ! 

How gladly, were I one of those, how 
early would I wake ! 

And yet the sorrow that I bear is sor- 
row for his sake. 



634 



TIRESIAS AND OTHER POEMS 



They love their mates, to whom they 

sing ; or else their songs, that 

meet 
The morning with such music, would 

never be so sweet ! 
And tho' these fathers will not hear, 

the blessed Heavens are j ust, 
And Love is fire, and burns the feet 

would trample it to dust. 



A door was open'd in the house — 

who ? who ? my father sleeps ! 
A stealthy foot upon the stair ! he — 

some one — this way creeps ! 70 
If he ? yes, he — lurks, listens, fears 

his victim may have fled — 
He ! where is some sharp-pointed 

thing ? he comes, and finds me 

dead. 



Not he, not yet ! and time to act — 

but how my temples burn ! 
And idle fancies flutter me, I know 

not where to turn ; 
Speak to me, sister, counsel me ; this 

marriage must not be. 
You only know the love that makes 

the world a world to me ! 

xx 

Our gentle mother, had she lived — 

but we were left alone. 
That other left us to ourselves, he 

cared not for his own ; 
So all the summer long we roam'd in 

these wild woods of ours, 
My Edwin loved to call us then ' his 

two wild woodland flowers/ 80 



Wild flowers blowing side by side in 

God's free light and air. 
Wild flowers of the secret woods, 

when Edwin found us there, 
Wild woods in which we roved with 

him, and heard his passionate 

vow, 
Wild woods in which we rove no more, 

if we be parted now ! 

XXII 

You will not leave me thus in grief 
to wander forth forlorn ; 



We never changed a bitter word, not 
once since we were born ; 

Our dying mother join'd our hands ; 
she knew this father well ; 

She bade us love, like souls in heaven, 
and now I fly from hell, 



And you with me ; and we shall light 

upon some lonely shore, 
Some lodge within the waste sea-dunes, 

and hear the waters roar, 90 
And see the ships from out the West 

go dipping thro' the foam, 
And sunshine on that sail at last which 

brings our Edwin home. 

XXIV 

But look, the morning grows apace, 
and lights the old church- tower, 

And lights the clock ! the hand points 
five — O, me ! — it strikes the 
hour — 

I bide no more, I meet my fate, what- 
ever ills betide ! 

Arise, my own true sister, come forth ! 
the world is wide. 



And yet my heart is ill at ease, my 

eyes are dim with dew, 
I seem to see a new-dug grave up 

yonder by the yew ! 
If we should never more return, but 

wander hand in hand 
With breaking hearts, without a 

friend, and in a distant land ! 100 

XXVI 

O sweet, they tell me that the world is 

hard, and harsh of mind, 
But can it be so hard, so harsh, as 

those that should be kind ? 
That matters not. Let come what will ; 

at last the end is sure, 
And every heart that loves with truth 

is equal to endure. 



TO-MORROW 



Her, that yer Honor was spakin' to ? 

Whin, yer Honor ? last year — 
Standin' here be the bridge, when last 

yer Honor was here ? 



TO-MORROW 



635 



An' yer Honor ye gev her the top of 

the mornin', 'To-morra,' says 

she. 
What did they call her, yer Honor? 

They call'd her Molly Magee. 
An' yer Honor 's the thrue ould blood 

that always manes to be kind, 
But there 's rason in all things, yer 

Honor, for Molly was out of her 

mind. 

11 
Shure, an' meself remimbers wan night 

comin' down be the sthrame, 
An' it seems to me now like a bit of 

yistherday in a dhrame — 
Here where yer Honor seen her — 

there was but a slip of a moon, 
But I hard thim — Molly Magee wid 

her bachelor, Danny O'Roon — 10 
1 You 've been takin' a dhrop o' the 

crathur,' an' Danny says, 

' Troth, an' I been 
Dhrinkin' yer health wid Shamus 

O'Shea at Katty's shebeen ; * 
But I must be lavin' ye soon.' 

1 Ochone, are ye goin' away ? ' 
' Goin' to cut the Sassenach whate,' 

he says, ' over the say ' — 
' An' whin will ye meet me agin ? ' an' 

I hard him, ' Molly asthore, 
I'll meet you agin to-morra,' says he, 

' be the chapel-door.' 
' An' whin are ye goin' to lave me ? ' 

' O' Monday mornin',' says he ; 
'An' shure thin ye '11 meet me to- 
morra ? ' ' To-morra, to-morra, 

machree ! ' 
Thin Molly's ould mother, yer Honor, 

that had no likin' for Dan, 
Call'd from her cabin an' tould her to 

come away from the man, 20 
An' Molly Magee kemflyin' acrass me, 

as light as a lark, 
An' Dan stood there for a minute, an 

thin wint into the dark. 
But wirrah! the storm that night — 

the tundher, an' rain that fell, 
An' the sthrames runnin' down at the 

back o' the glin 'ud 'a dhrownded 

hell. 



But airth was at pace nixt mornin', 
an' hiven in its glory smiled, 
1 Grog-shop. 



As the Holy Mother o' Glory that 

smiles at her sleepin' child — 
Ethen — she stept an the chapel-green, 

an' she turn'd herself roun' 
"Wid a diamond dhrop in her eye, for 

Danny was not to be foun', 
An' many's the time that I watch'd 

her at mass lettin' down the 

tear, 
For the divil a Danny was there, yer 

Honor, for forty year. 30 

IV 

Och, Molly Magee, wid the red o' the 

rose an' the white o' the may, 
An' yer hair as black as the night, an' 

yer eyes as bright as the day ! 
Achora, yer laste little whishper was 

sweet as the lilt of a bird ! 
Acushla, ye set me heart batin' to 

music wid ivery word ! 
An' sorra the Queen wid her sceptre 

in sich an illigant han', 
An' the fall of yer foot in the dance 

was as light as snow an the Ian', 
An' the sun kem out of a cloud whin- 

iver ye walkt in the shtreet, 
An' Shamus O'Shea was yer shadda, 

an' laid himself undher yer feet, 
An' I loved ye meself wid a heart an' 

a half, me darlin', and he 
'Ud 'a shot his own sowl dead for a 

kiss of ye, Molly Magee. 40 



But shure we wor betther f rinds whin 

I crack' d his skull for her sake, 
An' he ped me back wid the best he 

could give at ould Donovan's 

wake — 
For the boys wor about her agin whin 

Dan didn't come to the fore, 
An' Shamus along wid the rest, but 

she put thim all to the door. 
An', afther, I thried her meself av the 

bird 'ud come to me call. 
But Molly, begorrah, 'ud listhen to 

naither at all, at all. 

vr 
An' her nabors an' frinds 'ud consowl 

an' condowl wid her, airly an' 

late, 
1 Your Danny,' they says, ' niver crasst 

over say to the Sassenach 

whate : 



6 3 6 



TIRESIAS AND OTHER POEMS 



He's gone to the States, aroon, an' 
he 's married another wife, 

An' ye '11 niver set eyes an the face of 
the thraithur agin in life ! 50 

An' to dhrame of a married man, death 
alive, is a mortial sin.' 

But Molly says, 'I'd his hand-pro- 
mise, an' shure he '11 meet me 
agin/ 

VII 

An' afther her paarints had inter' d 

glory, an' both in wan day, 
She began to spake to herself, the 

crathur, an' whishper, an' say, 
1 To-morra, to-morra ! ' an' Father Mo- 

lowny he tuk her in han', 
'Molly, you're manin',' he says, 'me 

dear, av I undherstan', 
That ye'li meet your paarints agin 

an' yer Danny O'Roon afore God 
Wid his blessed Marthyrs an' Saints ; ' 

an' she gev him a frindly nod, 
' To-morra, to-morra,' she says, an' she 

did n't intind to desave, 
But her wits wor dead, an' her hair 

was as white as the snow an a 

grave. 60 



Arrah now, here last month they wor 
diggin' the bog, an' they f oun' 

Dhrownded in black bog-wather a corp 
lyin' undher groun'. 



Yer Honor's own agint, he says to me 

wanst, at Katty's shebeen, 
' The divil take all the black Ian', for 

a blessin' 'ud come wid the 

green ! ' 
An' where 'ud the poor man, thin, cut 

his bit o' turf for the fire ? 
But och ! bad scran to the bogs whin 

they swallies the man intire ! 
An' sorra the bog that 's in hiven wid 

all the light an' the glow, 
An' there 's hate enough, shure, wid- 

out thim in the divil' s kitchen 

below. 



Thim ould blind nagers in Agypt, I 
hard his Riverence say, 

Could keep their haithen kings in the 
flesh for the Jidgmint day, 70 



An', faix, be the piper o' Moses, they 
kep' the cat an' the dog, 

But it 'ud 'a been aisier work av they 
lived be an Irish bog. 



How-an-iver they laid this body they 

foun' an the grass, 
Be the chapel-door, an' the people 'ud 

see it that wint in to mass — 
But a f rish gineration had riz, an' most 

of the ould was few, 
An' I didn't know him meself, an 

none of the parish knew. 



But Molly kem limpin' up wid her 

stick, — she was lamed iv a 

knee, — 
Thin a slip of a gossoon call'd, ' Div 

ye know him, Molly Magee ? ' 
An' she stood up strait as the queen of 

the world — she lifted her 

head — 
' He said he would meet me to-morra ! ' 

an' dhropt down dead an the 

dead. 80 

XIII 

Och, Molly, we thought, machree, 

ye would start back agin into 

life, 
Whin we laid yez, aich be aich, at yer 

wake like husban' an' wife. 
Sorra the dhry eye thin but was wet 

for the frinds that was gone ! 
Sorra the silent throat, but we hard it 

cry in', ' Ochone ! ' 
An' Shamus O'Shea that has now ten 

childer, hansome an' tall, 
Him an' his childer wor keenin' as if 

he had lost thim all. 



Thin his Riverence buried thim both 
in wan grave be the dead boor- 
tree, x 

The young man Danny O'Roon wid 
his ould woman, Molly Magee. 



May all the flowers o' Jeroosilim blos- 
som an' spring from the grass. 

Imbrashin' an' kissin' aich other — as 
ye did — over yer Crass ! 90 
1 Elder-tree. 



THE SPINSTER'S SWEET-ARTS 



637 






An' the lark fly out o' the flowers wid 

his song to the sun an' the moon, 
An' tell thim in hiven about Molly 

Magee an' her Danny O'Roon, 
Till Holy Saint Pether gets up wid his 

kays an' opens the gate ! 
An' shure, be the Crass, that 's betther 

nor cuttin' the Sassenach whate, 
To be there wid the Blessed Mother 

an' Saints an' Marthyrs galore, 
An' singin' yer 'Aves' an' 'Fathers' 

for iver an' ivermore. 



An' now that I tould yer Honor what- 

iver I hard an' seen, 
Yer Honor 'ill give me a thrifle to 

dhrink yer health in potheen. 



THE SPINSTER'S SWEET-ARTS 



Milk for my sweet-arts, Bess ! fur it 

mun be the time about now 
When Molly cooms in fro' the far-end 

close wi' her paails fro' the cow. 
Eh ! tha be new to the plaace — 

thou'rt gaapin' — doesn't tha 

see 
I calls 'em arter the fellers es once 

was sweet upo' me ? 



Naay, to be sewer, it be past 'er time. 

What maakes 'er sa laate ? 
Goa to the laane at the back, an' 

loook thruf Maddison's gaate ! 



Sweet-arts! Molly belike may 'a 

lighted to-night upo' one. 
Sweet-arts ! thanks to the Lord that I 

niver not listen'd to noan ! 
So I sits i' my oan armchair wi' my 

oan kettle theere o' the hob, 
An' Tommy the fust, an' Tommy the 

second, an' Steevie an' Rob. 10 



Rob, coom oop 'ere o' my knee. Thou 
sees that i' spite o' the men 

I 'a kep' thruf thick an' thin my two 
'oonderd a-year to mysen ; 

Yis ! thaw tha call'd me es pretty es 
ony lass i' the Shere ; 



An' thou be es pretty a tabby, but 
Robby I seed thruf ya theere. 



Feyther 'ud saay I wur ugly es sin, 

an' I beant not vaain, 
But I niver wur downright hugly, 

thaw soom 'ud 'a thowt ma 

plaain, 
An' I was n't sa plaain i' pink ribbons 

— ye said I wur pretty i' pinks, 
An' I liked to 'ear it I did, but I beant 

sich a fool as ye thinks ; 
Ye was stroakin' ma down wi' the 'air, 

as I be a-stroakin' o' you, 
But whiniver I loooked i' the glass I 

wur sewer that it couldn't be 

true ; 20 

Niver wur pretty, not I, but ye 

knaw'd it wur pleasant to 'ear, 
Thaw it warn't not me es wur pretty, 

but my two 'oonderd a-year. 



D' ya mind the murnin' when we was 

a-walkin' togither, an' stood 
By the claay'd-oop pond, that the 

foalk be sa scared at, i' Gig- 

glesby wood, 
Wheer the poor wench drowndid her- 

sen, black Sal, es 'ed been dis- 

graaced ? 
An' I feel'd thy arm es I stood wur 

a-creeapin' about my waaist ; 
An' me es wur alius afear'd of a man's 

gittin ower fond, 
I sidled a wa ay an' awaay till I plump t 

foot fust i' the pond ; 
And, Robby, I niver 'a liked tha sa 

well, as I did that daiiy, 
Fur tha joompt in thysen, an' tha 

hoickt my feet wi' a flop fro' 

the claay. 30 

Ay, stick oop thy back, an' set oop 

thy taail, tha may gie ma a kiss, 
Fur I walk'd wi' tha all the way hoam 

an' wur niver sa nigh saayin' 

Yis. 
But wa boath was i' sich a clat we 

was shaamed to cross Gigglesby 

Greeiin, 
Fur a cat may loook at a king, thou 

knaws, but the cat mun be 

clean. 
Sa we boath on us kep' out o' sight *>' 

the winders o' Gigglesby 1 linn — 



6 3 8 



TIRESIAS AND OTHER POEMS 



Naay, but the claws o' tha ! quiet ! 

they pricks clean thruf to the 

skin — 
An' wa boath slinkt 'oam by the brok- 

ken shed i' the laane at the 

back, 
Wheer the poodle runn'd at tha once, 

an' thou runn'd oop o' the thack ; 
An' tha squeedg'd my 'and i' the shed, 

fur theere we was forced to 

'ide, 
Fur I seed that Steevie wur coomin', 

and one o' the Tommies beside. 



Theere now, what art 'a mewin' at, 
Steevie ? for owt I can tell — 41 

Robby wur fust, to be sewer, or I 
mowt 'a liked tha as well. 



But, Robby, I thowt o' tha all the 

while I wur chaangin' my gown, 
An' I thowt, shall I chaange my 

staate ? but, O Lord, upo' 

coomin' down — 
My bran-new carpet es fresh es a 

midder o' flowers i' Maay — 
Why 'ed n't tha wiped thy shoes ? it 

wur clatted all ower wi' claay. 
An' I could 'a cried ammost, fur I 

seed that it could n't be, 
An', Robby, I gied tha a raatin' that 

sat tied thy coortin' o' me. 
An' Molly an' me was agreed, as we 

was a-cleanin' the floor, 
That a man be a durty thing an' a 

trouble an' plague wi' indoor. 50 
But I rued it arter a bit, fur I stuck 

to tha moor na the rest, 
But I couldn't 'a lived wi' a man, an' 

I knaws it be all fur the best. 



JNaay — let ma stroak tha down till I 

maakes tha es smooth es silk, 
But if I 'ed married tha, Robby, thou 'd 

not 'a been worth thy milk, 
Thou 'd niver 'a cotch'd ony mice but 

'a left me the work to do, 
And 'a taaen to the bottle beside, so 

es all that I 'ears be true ; 
But I loovs tha to maake thy sen 'appy, 

an' soa purr awaay, my dear, 
Thou 'ed wellnigh purr'd ma awaay 

fro' my oan two 'oonderd a-year. 



Swearin' agean, you Toms, as ye used 
to do twelve year sin' ! 

Ye niver eard Steevie swear 'cep' it 
wur at a dog coomin' in, 60 

An' boath o' ye mun be fools to be 
hallus a-shawin' your claws, 

Fur I niver cared nothink for nei- 
ther — an' one o' ye dead, ye 
knaws ! 

Coom, give hoaver then, weant ye? 
I warrant ye soom fine daay — 

Theere, lig down — I shall hev to gie 
one or tother awaay. 

Can't ye taake pattern by Steevie ? ye 
shan't hev a drop fro' the paS.il. 

Steevie be right good manners bang 
thruf to the tip o' the taail. 

XI 

Robby, git down wi' tha, wilt tha? 

let Steevie coom oop o' my knee. 
Steevie, my lad, thou 'ed very nigh 

been the Steevie fur me ! 
Robby wur fust, to be sewer, 'e wur 

burn an' bred i' the 'ouse, 
But thou be es 'ansom a tabby es iver 

patted' a mouse. 70 



An' I beant not vaain, but I knaws I 

'ed led tha a quieter life 
Nor her wi' the hepitaph yonder ! ' A 

f aaithful an' loovin' wif e ! ' 
An' 'cos o' thy farm by the beck, an' 

thy windmill oop o' the croft, 
Tha thowt tha would marry ma, did 

tha ? but that wur a bit ower 

soft, 
Thaw thou was es soaber es daay, wi' 

a niced red faace, an' es clean 
Es a shillin' fresh fro' the mint wi' a 

bran-new 'ead o' the Queean, 
An' thy farmin' es clean es thysen, 

fur, Steevie, tha kep' it sa neat 
That I niver not spied sa much es a 

poppy along wi' the wheat, 
An' the wool of a thistle a-flyin' an' 

seeadin' tha haated to see ; 
'T wur es bad es a battle-twig 1 'ere i' 

my oan blue chaumber to me. 
Ay, roob thy whiskers agean ma, fur 

I could 'a taaen to tha well, 81 
But fur thy bairns, poor Steevie, a 

bouncin' boy an' a gell. 
1 Earwig. 



PROLOGUE 



639 



An' thou was es fond o' thy bairns es 

I be mysen o' my cats, 
But I niver not wish'd fur childer, I 

hev n't naw likin' fur brats ; 
Pretty anew when ya dresses 'em oop, 

an' they goas fur a walk, 
Or sits wi' their 'ands afoor 'em, an' 

doesn't not 'inder the talk ! 
But their bottles o' pap, an' their 

mucky bibs, an' the clats an' 

the clouts, 
An' their mashin' their toys to pieaces 

an' maakin' ma deaf wi' their 

shouts, 
An' hallus a-joompin' about ma as if 

they was set upo' springs, 
An' a haxin' ma hawkard questions, 

an' saayin' ondecent things, 90 
An' a-callin' ma ' hugly ' mayhap to my 

faace, or a-tearin' my gown — 
Dear ! dear ! dear ! I mun part them 

Tommies — Steevie, git down. 

XIV 

Ye be wuss nor the men-tommies, you. 

I tell'd ya, na moor o' that ! 
Tom, lig theere o' the cushion, an' 

tother Tom 'ere o' the mat. 

xv 
Theere! I ha' master'd them! Hed I 

married the Tommies — O Lord, 
To loove an' obaay the Tommies ! I 

could n't 'a stuck by my word. 
To be horder'd about, an' waaked, 

when Molly 'd put out the light, 
By a man coomin' in wi' a hiccup at 

ony hour o' the night ! 
An' the taable staain'd wi' 'is aale, an' 

the mud o' 'is boots o' the stairs, 
An' the stink o' 'is pipe i' the 'ouse, an' 

the mark o' 'is 'ead o' the chairs ! 
An' noan o' my four sweet-arts 'ud 'a 

let me 'a hed my oan waay, 101 
Sa I likes 'em best wi' taails when 

they 'ev n't a word to saay. 

XVI 

An' I sits i' my oiin little parlor, an' 
sarved by my oiin little lass, 

Wi' my oan little garden outside, an' 
my oan bed o' sparrow-grass, 

An' my oan door-poorch wi' the wood- 
bine an' jessmine a-dressin' it 
greean, 



An' my oan fine Jackman f purple a 
roabin' the 'ouse like a queean. 

XVII 

An' the little gells bobs to ma hoffens 

es I be abroad i' the laanes, 
When I goas fur to coomfurt the poor 

es be down wi' their haaches 

an' their paains : 
An' a haaf-pot o' jam, or a mossel o' 

meat w T hen it beant too dear, . 
They maakes ma a graater lady nor 

'er i' the mansion theer, no 

Hes 'es hallus to hax of a man how 

much to spare or to spend ; 
An' a spinster I be an' I will be, if 

soa please God, to the hend. 



Mew ! mew ! — Bess wi' the milk ! what 
ha maade our Molly sa laate ? 

It should 'a been 'ere by seven, an' 
theere — it be strikin' height — 

1 Cushie wur craazed fur 'er cauf,' well 

— I 'eard 'er a-maakin' 'er moan, 
An' I thowt to mysen, ' thank God that 

I hev n't naw cauf o' my oan. ' 
Theere ! 

Set it down ! 

Now, Robby ! 

You Tommies shall waait to-night 

Till Robby an' Steevie 'es 'ed their lap 

— an' it sarves ye right. 



PROLOGUE 
TO GENERAL HAMLEY 

Our birches yellowing and from each 

The light leaf falling fast, 
While squirrels from our fiery beech 

Were bearing off the mast, 
You came, and look'd and loved the 
view 

Long-known and loved by me, 
Green Sussex fading into biue 

With one gray glimpse of sea ; 
And, gazing from this height alone, 

We spoke of what had been 
Most marvellous in the wars your own 

Crimean eyes had seen ; 
And — now like old-world inns that 
take 

Some warrior for a sign 



640 



TIRESIAS AND OTHER POEMS 



That therewithin a guest may make 

True cheer with honest wine — 
Because you heard the lines I read 

Nor utter'd word of blame, 
I dare without your leave to head 

These rhymings with your name, 
Who know you but as one of those 

I fain would meet again, 
Yet know you, as your England knows 

That you and all your men 
Were soldiers to her heart's desire, 

When, in the vanish' d year, 
You saw the league-long rampart-fire 

Flare from Tel-el-Kebir 
Thro' darkness, and the foe was 
driven, 

And Wolseley overthrew 
Arabi, and the stars in heaven 

Paled, and the glory grew. 



THE CHARGE OF THE HEAVY 
BRIGADE AT BALACLAVA 



OCTOBER 25, 1854 



The charge of the gallant three hun- 
dred, the Heavy Brigade ! 

Down the hill, down the hill, thou- 
sands of Russians, 

Thousands of horsemen, drew to the 
valley — and stay'd ; 

For Scarlett and Scarlett's three hun- 
dred were riding by 

When the points of the Russian lances 
arose in the sky ; 

And he call'd, ' Left wheel into line ! ' 
•and they wheel'd and obey'd. 

Then he look'd at the host that had 
halted he knew not why, 

And he turn'd half round, and he bade 
his trumpeter sound 

To the charge, and he rode on ahead, 
as he waved his blade 

To the gallant three hundred whose 
glory will never die — 

'Follow,' and up the hill, up the hill, 
up the hill, 

Follow'd the Heavy Brigade. 



The trumpet, the gallop, the charge, 
and the might of the fight ! 

Thousands of horsemen had gather' d 
there on the height, 



With a wing push'd out to the left and 

a wing to the right, 
And who shall escape if they close ? 

but he dash'd up alone 
Thro' the great gray slope of men, 
Sway'd his sabre, and held his own 
Like an Englishman there and then. 
All in a moment follow'd with force 
Three that were next in their fiery 

course, 
Wedged themselves in between horse 

and horse, 
Fought for their lives in the narrow 

gap they had made — 
Four amid thousands ! and up the hill, 

up the hill, 
Gallopt the gallant three hundred, the 

Heavy Brigade. 



Fell like a cannon-shot, 
Burst like a thunderbolt, 
Crash'd like a hurricane, 
Broke thro' the mass from below, 
Drove thro' the midst of the foe, 
Plunged up and down, to and fro, 
Rode flashing blow upon blow, 
Brave Inniskillens and Greys 
Whirling their sabres in circles of 

light ! 
And some of us, all in amaze, 
Who were held for a while from the 

fight, 
And were only standing at gaze, 
When the dark-muffled Russian crowd 
Folded its wings from the left and the 

right, 
And roll'd them around like a cloud, — 
O, mad for the charge and the battle 

were we, 
When our own good redcoats sank 

from sight, 
Like drops of blood in a dark-gray sea, 
And we turn'd to each other, whisper- 
ing, all dismay'd, 
' Lost are the gallant three hundred of 

Scarlett's Brigade !' 



' Lost one and all ' were the words 
Mutter'd in our dismay ; 
But they rode like victors and lords 
Thro' the forest of lances and swords 
In the heart of the Russian hordes, 
They rode, or they stood at bay 
Struck with the sword-hand and slew, 






THE CHARGE OF THE HEAVY BRIGADE 641 




' The trumpet, the gallop, the charge, and the might of the fight ' 



Down with the bridle-hand drew 
The foe from the saddle and threw 
Underfoot there in the fray — 
Ranged like a storm or stood like a rock 
In the wave of a stormy day ; 
Till suddenly shock upon shock 
Stagger' d the mass from without, 
Drove it in wild disarray, 
For our men gallopt up with a cheer 

and a shout, 
^And the foeman surged, and waver' d, 

and reel'd 
Up the hill, up the hill, up the hill, 

out of the field, 
And over the brow and away. 

v 
Glory to each and to all, and the 

charge that they made ! 
Glory to all the three hundred, and all 

the Brigade ! 



Note. — The ' three hundred ' of the 
1 Heavy Brigade ' who made this famous 
charge were the Scots Greys and the 2d 
squadron of Inniskillens ; the remainder of 
the ' Heavy Brigade ' subsequently dashing 
up to their support. 

The 'three ' were Scarlett's aide-de-camp, 
Elliot, and the trumpeter, and Shegog the 
orderly, who had been close behind him. 

EPILOGUE 

IRENE. 

Not this way will you set your name 
A star among the stars. 

POET. 

What way ? 

IRENE. 

You praise when you should blame 
The barbarism of wars. 
A j uster epoch has begun. 



642 



TIRESIAS AND OTHER POEMS 



POET. 

Yet tho' this cheek be gray, 
And that bright hair the modern sun, 

Those eyes the blue to-day, 
You wrong me, passionate little friend. 

I would that wars should cease, 
I would the globe from end to end 
And some new Spirit o'erbear the 
old, 

Might sow and reap in peace, 

Or Trade refrain the Powers 
From war with kindly links of gold, 

Or Love with wreaths of flowers. 
Slav, Teuton, Kelt, I count them all 

My friends and brother souls, 
With all the peoples, great and small, 

That wheel between the poles. 
But since our mortal shadow, 111, 

To waste this earth began — 
Perchance from some abuse of Will 

In worlds before the man 
Involving ours — he needs must fight 

To make true peace his own, 
He needs must combat might with 
might, 

Or Might world rule alone ; 
And who loves war for war's own sake 

Is fool, or crazed, or worse ; 
But let the patriot- soldier take 

His meed of fame in verse ; 
Nay — tho' that realm were in the 
wrong 

For which her warriors bleed, 
It still were right to crown with song 

The warrior's noble deed — 
A crown the Singer hopes may last, 

For so the deed endures ; 
But Song will vanish in the Vast ; 

And that large phrase of yours 
'A star among the stars,' my dear, 

Is girlish talk at best ; 
For dare we dally with the sphere 

As he did half in jest, 
Old Horace ? ' I will strike,' said he, 

' The stars with head sublime,' 
But scarce could see, as now we see, 

The man in space and time, 
So drew perchance a happier lot 

Than ours, who rhyme to-day. 
The fires that arch this dusky dot — 

Yon myriad-worlded way — 
The vast sun-clusters' gather'd blaze, 

World-isles in lonely skies, 
Whole heavens within themselves, 
amaze 

Our brief humanities. 



And so does Earth ; for Homer's fame, 
Tho* carved in harder stone — 

The falling drop will make his name 
As mortal as my own. 



No ! 



POET. 



Let it live then — ay, till when ? 

Earth passes, all is lost 
In what they prophesy, our wise 
men, 

Sun-flame or sunless frost, 
And deed and song alike are swept 

Away, and all in vain 
As far as man can see, except 

The man himself remain ; 
And tho', in this lean age forlorn, 

Too many a voice may cry 
That man can have no after-morn, 

Not yet of those am I. 
The man remains, and whatsoe'er 

He wrought of good or brave 
Will mould him thro' the cycle-year 

That dawns behind the grave. 



And here the Singer for his art 

Not all in vain may plead 
' The song that nerves a nation's heart 

Is in itself a deed.' 



TO VIRGIL 

WRITTEN AT THE REQUEST OF 
THE MANTUANS FOR THE NINE- 
TEENTH CENTENARY OF VIR- 
GIL'S DEATH 



Roman Virgil, thou that singest 
Dion's lofty temples robed in fire, 

Ilion falling, Rome arising, 

wars, and filial faith, and Dido's 
pyre ; 



Landscape-lover, lord of language 
more than he that sang the 
'Works and Days,' 
All the chosen coin of fancy 

flashing out from many a golden 
phrase ; 



THE DEAD PROPHET 



643 



III 


THE DEAD PROPHET 


Thou that singest wheat and wood- 
land, 


182- 


tilth and vineyard, hive and horse 


1 


and herd ; 


Dead ! 


All the charm of all the Muses 


And the Muses cried with a stormy 


often flowering in a lonely word ; 


cry, 




1 Send them no more, for evermore. 


IV 


Let the people die.' 


Poet of the happy Tityrus 




piping underneath his beechen 


11 


bowers; 


Dead! 


Poet of the poet-satyr 


' Is it lie then brought so low ? ' 


whom the laughing shepherd 


And a careless people flock' d from the 


bound with flowers ; 


fields 


v 


With a purse to pay for the show. 


Chanter of the Pollio, glorying 


in 


in the blissful years again to be, 


Dead, who had served his time, 


Summers of the snakeless meadow, 


Was one of the people's kings, 


unlaborious earth and oarless sea ; 


Had labor'd in lifting them out of 




slime, 


VI 


And showing them, souls have 


Thou that seest Universal 


wings ! 


Nature moved by Universal Mind ; 




Thou maj estic in thy sadness 


IV 


at the doubtful doom of human 


Dumb on the winter heath he lay. 


kind ; 


His friends had stript him bare, 




And roll'd his nakedness everyway 


VII 


That all the crowd might stare. 


Light among the vanish'd ages ; 




star that gildest yet this phantom 


V 


shore ; 


A storm-worn signpost not to be read, 


Golden branch amid the shadows, 


And a tree with a moulder'd nest 


kings and realms that pass to rise 


On its barkless bones, stood stark 


no more ; 


by the dead ; 


VIII 


And behind him, low in the West, 


Now thy Forum roars no longer, 


VI 


fallen every purple Caesar's dome — 


With shifting ladders of shadow and 


Tho' thine ocean-roll of rhythm 


light, 


sound forever of Imperial Rome — 


And blurr'd in color and form, 




The sun hung over the gates of night, 


IX 


And glared at a coming storm. 


Now the Rome of slaves hath perish'd, 




and the Rome of freemen holds 


VII 


her place, 


Then glided a vulturous beldam forth, 


I, from out the Northern Island 


That on dumb death had thriven ; 


sunder' d once from all the human 


They call'd her ' Reverence ' here upon 


race, 


earth, 


X 


And ' The Curse of the Prophet ' in 


I salute thee, Mantovano, 


heaven. 


I that loved thee since my day 




began, 


VIII 


Wielder of the stateliest measure 


She knelt — ' We worship him ' — all 


ever moulded by the lips of man. 


but wept — 



644 



TIRESIAS AND OTHER POEMS 



1 So great, so noble, was he ! ' 
She clear'd her sight, she arose, she 
swept 
The dust of earth from her knee. 


But she — she push'd them aside. 
' Tho' a name may last for a thousand 
years, 
Yet a truth is a truth, ' she cried. 


IX 


XVI 


' Great ! for he spoke and the people 
heard, 
And his eloquence caught like a 
flame 
From zone to zone of the world, till 
his word 
Had won him a noble name. 


And she that had haunted his path- 
way still, 
Had often truckled and cower'd 
When he rose in his wrath, and had 
yielded her will 
To the master, as overpower'd, 

XVII 


X 

' Noble ! he sung, and the sweet sound 
ran 
Thro' palace and cottage door, 
For he touch' d on the whole sad planet 
of man, 
The kings and the rich and the poor ; 


She tumbled his helpless corpse 
about. 
' Small blemish upon the skin ! 
But I think we kriow what is fair- 
without 
Is often as foul within.' 

XVIII 


XI 

1 And he sung not alone of an old sun 
set, 

But a sun coming up in his youth ! 
Great and noble — 0, yes — but yet — 

For man is a lover of truth, 


She crouch'd, she tore him part from 
part, 
And out of his body she drew 
The red ' blood-eagle ' 1 of liver and 
heart ; 
She held them up to the view ; 


XII 


XIX 


* And bound to follow, wherever she 
go 
Stark-naked, and up or down, 
Thro' her high hill-passes of stainless" 
snow, 
Or the foulest sewer of the town — 


She gabbled, as she groped in the 
dead, 

And all the people were pleased ; 
' See, what a little heart,' she said, 

1 And the liver is half -diseased ! ' 

XX 


XIII 

' Noble and great — 0, ay — but then, 
Tho' a prophet should have his 
due, 
Was he noblier-fashion'd than other 


She tore the prophet after death, 
And the people paid her well. 

Lightnings flicker'd along the heath ; 
One shriek'd, * The fires of hell ! ' 


men ? 
Shall we see to it, I and you ? 


EARLY SPRING 


XIV 




' For since he would sit on a prophet's 
seat, 
As a lord of the human soul, 
We needs must scan him from head to 
feet, 
Were it but for a wart or a mole ? ' 


i 
Once more the Heavenly Power 

Makes all things new, 
And domes the red-plow'd hills 

With loving blue ; 
The blackbirds have their wills, 

The throstles too. 


XV 

His wife and his child stood by him in 
tears, 


1 Old Viking term for lungs, liver, etc., 
when torn by the conqueror out of the body 
of the conquered. 



'FRATER AVE 


ATQUE VALE' 645 


ii 


PREFATORY POEM TO MY 


Opens a door in heaven ; 


BROTHER'S SONNETS 


From skies of glass 




A Jacob's ladder falls 


MIDNIGHT, JUNE 30, 1879 


On greening grass, 




And o'er the mountain- walls 


I 


Young angels pass. 


Midnight — in no midsummer tune 




The breakers lash the shores ; 


in 


The cuckoo of a joyless June 


Before them fleets the shower, 


Is calling out of doors. 


And burst the buds, 




And shine the level lands, 


And thou hast vanish'd from thine own 


And flash the floods ; , 


To that which looks like rest, 


The stars are from their hands 


True brother, only to be known 


Flung thro' the woods, 


By those who love thee best. 


IV 

The woods with living airs 


ii 

Midnight — and joyless June gone by, 


How softly fann'd, 


And from the deluged park 


Light airs from where the deep, 


The cuckoo of a worse July 


All down the sand, 


Is calling thro' the dark ; 


Is breathing in his sleep, 




Heard by the land. 


But thou art silent underground, 




And o'er thee streams the rain, 


v 


True poet, surely to be found 


0, follow, leaping blood, 


When Truth is found again. 


The season's lure ! 




heart, look down and up 


in 


Serene, secure, 


And, now to these unsummer'd skies 


Warm as the crocus cup, 


The summer bird is still, 


Like snowdrops, pure ! 


Far off a phantom cuckoo cries 


VI 


From out a phantom hill ; 


Past, Future glimpse and fade 


And thro' this midnight breaks the sun 


Thro' some slight spell, 


Of sixty years away, 


A gleam from yonder vale, 


The light of days when life begun, 


Some far blue fell, 


The days that seem to-day, 


And sympathies, how frail, 




In sound and smell ! 


When all my griefs were shared with 


• 


thee, 


VII 


As all my hopes were thine — 


Till at thy chuckled note, 


As all thou wert was one with me, 


Thou twinkling bird, 


May all thou art be mine ! 


The fairy fancies range, 




And, lightly stirr'd, 




Ring little bells of change 


'FRATER AYE ATQUE YALE' 


From word to word. 






Row us out from Desenzano, to your 


VIII. 


Sirmione row ! 


For now the Heavenly Power 


So they row'd, and there we landed — 


Makes all things new, 


' venusta Sirmio ! ' 


And thaws the cold, and fills 


There to me thro' all the groves of 


The flower with dew ; 


olive in the summer glow, 


The blackbirds have their wills, 


There beneath the Roman ruin where 


The poets too. 


the purple flowers grow, 



646 



TIRESIAS AND OTHER POEMS 



Came that ' Ave atque Vale ' of the 
Poet's hopeless woe, 

Tenderest of Roman poets nineteen 
hundred years ago, 

'Frater Ave atque Yale' — as we 
wander' d to and fro 

Gazing at the Lydian laughter of the 
Garda Lake below 

Sweet Catullus's all-but-island, olive- 
silvery Sirmio ! 



HELEN'S TOWER 

[Written at the request of my friend, 
Lord Dufferin.] 

Helen's Tower, here I stand, 
Dominant over sea and land. 
Son's love built me, and I hold 
Mother's love in letter'd gold. 
Love is in and out of time, 
I am mortal stone and lime. 
Would my granite girth were strong 
As either love, to last as long ! 
I should wear my crown entire 
To and from the Doomsday fire, 
And be found of angel eyes 
In earth's recurring Paradise. 



EPITAPH ON LORD STRATFORD 
DE REDCLIFFE 

IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY 

Thou third great Canning, stand 
among our best 
And noblest, now thy long day's 
work hath ceased, 
Here silent in our Minster of the 
West 
Who wert the voice of England in 
the East. 



EPITAPH ON GENERAL GOR- 
DON 

IN THE GORDON BOYS' NATIONAL 
MEMORIAL HOME NEAR WOKING 

Warrior of God, man's friend, and 
tyrant's foe, 
Now somewhere dead far in the 
waste Soudan, 



Thou livest in all hearts, for all men 
know 
This earth has never borne a nobler 
man. 



EPITAPH ON CAXTON 

IN ST. MARGARET'S, WESTMINSTER 

Fiat Lux (his motto) 

Thy prayer was ' Light — more Light 
— while Time shall last ! ' 
Thou sawest a glory growing on 
the night, 
But not the shadows which that light 
would cast, 
Till shadows vanish in 'the Light of 
Light. 

TO THE DUKE OF ARGYLL 

O Patriot Statesman, be thou wise 
to know 

The limits of resistance, and the bounds 

Determining concession ; still be bold 

Not only to slight praise but suffer 
scorn ; 

And be thy heart a fortress to maintain 

The day against the moment, and the 
year 

Against the day ; thy voice, a music 
heard 

Thro' all the yells and counter-yells 
of feud 

And faction, and thy will, a power to 
make 

This ever-changing world mi circum- 
stance, 

In changing, chime with never-chan- 
ging Law. 

HANDS ALL ROUND 1 

First pledge our Queen this solemn 
night, 

Then drink to England, every guest ; 
That man 's the best Cosmopolite 

Who loves his native country best. 
May freedom's oak for ever live 

With stronger life from day to day ; 

1 Written after the Queen's escape from 
assassination, 1882. . 



FREEDOM 



647 



That man's the true Conservative k 
Who lops the moulder'd branch 
away. 

Hands all round ! 
God the traitor's hope confound ! 
To this great cause of Freedom drink, 
my friends, 
And the great name of England, 
round and round. 

To all the loyal hearts who long 

To keep our English Empire whole ! 
To all our noble sons, the strong 

New England of the Southern Pole ! 
To England under Indian skies, 

To those dark millions of her realm ! 
To Canada whom we love and prize, 
Whatever statesman hold the helm. 

Hands all round ! 
God the traitor's hope confound ! 
To this great name of England drink, 
my friends, 
And all her glorious empire, round 
and round. 

To all our statesmen so they be 

True leaders of the land's desire ! 
To both our Houses, may they see 

Beyond the borough and the shire ! 
We sail'd wherever ship could sail, 

We founded many a mighty state ; 

Pray God our greatness may not fail 

Thro' craven fears of being great ! 

Hands all round ! 
God the traitor's hope confound ! 
To this great cause of Freedom drink, 
my friends, 
And the great name of England, 
round and round. 



FREEDOM 



O thou so fair in summers gone, 
While yet thy fresh and virgin 
soul 

Inform'd the pillar'd Parthenon, 
The glittering Capitol ; 

11 

So fair in southern sunshine bathed, 
But scarce of such majestic mien 

As here with forehead vapor-swathed 
In meadows ever green ; 



For thou — when Athens reign'd and 
Rome, 
Thy glorious eyes were dimm'd with 
pain 
To mark in many a freeman's home 
The slave, the scourge, the chain ; 

IV 

O follower of the Vision, still 
In motion to the distant gleam, 

Howe'er blind force and brainless 
will 
May jar thy golden dream 



Of Knowledge fusing class with 
class, 

Of civic Hate no more to be, 
Of Love to leaven all the mass, 

Till every soul be free ; 

VI 

Who yet, like Nature, wouldst not 
mar 

By changes all too fierce and fast 
This order of her Human Star, 

This heritage of the past ; 



O scorner of the party cry 

That wanders from the public good, 
Thou — when the nations rear on 
high 

Their idol smear'd with blood, 

VIII 

And when they roll their idol down — 
Of saner worship sanely proud ; 

Thou loather of the lawless crown 
As of the lawless crowd ; 



How long thine ever-growing mind 
Hath still'd the blast and strown 
the wave, 

Tho' some of late would raise a wind 
To sing thee to thy grave, 



Men loud against all forms of power — 
Unfurnish'd brows, tempestuous 
tongues, 

Expecting all things in an hour — 
Brass mouths and iron lungs ! 



6^8 



TIRESIAS AND OTHER POEMS 



POETS AND THEIR BIBLIO- 
GRAPHIES 

Old poets foster'd under friendlier 
skies, 
Old Virgil who would write ten 

lines, they say, 
At dawn, and lavish all the golden 
day 
To make them wealthier in his readers' 

eyes; 
And you, old popular Horace, you 
the wise 
Adviser of the nine-years-ponder'd 

lay, 
And you, that wear a wreath of 
sweeter bay, 
Catullus, whose dead songster never 

dies; 
If, glancing downward on the kindly 
sphere 
That once had roll'd you round and 
round the sun, 
You see your Art still shrined in hu- 
man shelves, 
You should be jubilant that you flour - 
ish'd here 
Before the Love of Letters, over- 
done, 
Had swampt the sacred poets with 
themselves. 

TO H. R H. PRINCESS BEA- 
TRICE 

Two Suns of Love make day of hu- 
man life, 

Which else with all its pains, and 
griefs, and deaths, 



Were utter darkness — one, the Sun 

of dawn 
That brightens thro' the Mother's 

tender eyes, 
And warms the child's awakening 

world — and one 
The later-rising Sun of spousal Love; 
Which from her household orbit draws 

the child 
To move in other spheres. The Mo- 
ther weeps 
At that white funeral of the single 

life, 
Her maiden daughter's marriage ; and 

her tears 
Are half of pleasure, half of pain — 

the child 
Is happy — even in leaving her! but 

thou, 
True daughter, whose all- faithful, 

filial eyes 
Have seen the loneliness of earthly 

thrones, 
Wilt neither quit the widow'd Crown, 

nor let 
This later light of Love have risen in 

vain, 
But moving thro' the Mother's home, 

between 
The two that love thee, lead a summer 

life, 
Sway'd by each Love, and swaying to 

each Love, 
Like some conjectured planet in mid 

heaven 
Between two suns, and drawing down 

from both 
The light and genial warmth of double 

day. 




* Late, my grandson ! half the morning have I paced these sandy tracts ' 

LOCKSLEY HALL SIXTY YEARS AFTER, ETC. 

TO MY WIFE 

I DEDICATE THIS DRAMATIC MONOLOGUE AND THE POEMS WHICH FOLLOW 



LOCKSLEY HALL SIXTY YEARS 
AFTER 

Late, my grandson ! half the morning 
have I paced these sandy tracts, 

Watch' d again the hollow ridges roar- 
ing into cataracts, 

Wander'd back to living boyhood 
while I heard the curlews call, 

I myself so close on death, and death 
itself in Locksley Hall. 

So — your happy suit was blasted — 
she the faultless, the divine ; 

And you liken — boyish babble — this 
boy-love of yours with mine. 

I myself have often babbled doubtless 

of a foolish past ; 
Babble, babble ; our old England may 

go down in babble at last. 

' Curse him ! ' curse your fellow-vic- 
tim? call him dotard in your 
rage ? 

Eyes that lured a doting boyhood well 
might fool a dotard's age. 10 



Jilted for a wealthier ! wealthier ? yet 
perhaps she was not wise ; 

I remember how you kiss'd the minia- 
ture with those sweet eyes. 

In the hall there hangs a painting — 
Amy's arms about my neck — 

Happy children in a sunbeam sitting 
on the ribs of wreck. 

In my life there was a picture, she 
that clasp'd my neck had flown ; 

I was left within the shadow sitting 
on the wreck alone. 

Yours has been a slighter ailment, 
will you sicken for her sake ? 

You, not you ! your modern amorist 
is of easier, earthlier make. 

Amy loved me, Amy fail'd me, Amy 
was a timid child ; 

But your Judith — but your world- 
ling — she had never driven me 
wild. w 

She that holds the diamond necklace 
dearer than the golden ring, 



650 



LOCKSLEY HALL SIXTY YEARS AFTER 



She that finds a winter sunset fairer 
than a morn of spring. 

She that in her heart is brooding on 
his briefer lease of life, 

While she vows ' till death shall part 
us,' she the w T ould-be-widow 
wife. 

She the worldling born of worldlings — 
father, mother — be content, 

Even the homely farm can teach us 
there is something in descent. 

Yonder in that chapel, slowly sinking 

now into the ground, 
Lies the warrior, my forefather, with 

his feet upon the hound. 

Cross'd ! for once he sail'd the sea to 
crush the Moslem in his pride ; 

Dead the warrior, dead his glory, dead 
the cause in which he died. 30 

Yet how often I and Amy in the 
mouldering aisle have stood, 

Gazing for one pensive moment on 
that founder of our blood. 

There again I stood to-day, and where 
of old we knelt in prayer, 

Close beneath the casement crimson 
with the shield of Locksley — 
there, 

All in white Italian marble, looking 

still as if she smiled, 
Lies my Amy dead in childbirth, dead 

the mother, dead the child. 

Dead — and sixty years ago, and dead 
her aged husband now — 

I, this old white-headed dreamer, 
stoopt and kiss'd her marble 
brow. 

Gone the fires of youth, the follies, 
furies, curses, passionate tears, 

Gone like fires and floods and earth- 
quakes of the planet's dawning 
years. 40 

Fires that shook me once, but now to 
silent ashes fallen away. 

Cold upon the dead volcano sleeps the 
gleam of dying day. 



Gone the tyrant of my youth, and 
mute below the chancel stones, 

All his virtues — I forgive them — 
black in white above his bones. 

Gone the comrades of my bivouac, 
some in fight against the foe, 

Some thro' age and slow diseases, 
gone as all on earth will go. 

Gone with whom for forty years my 
life in golden sequence ran, 

She with all the charm of woman, she 
with all the breadth of man, 

Strong in will and rich in wisdom, 
Edith, yet so lowly-sweet, 

Woman to her inmost heart, and wo- 
man to her tender feet, 50 

Yery woman of very woman, nurse of 

ailing body and mind, 
She that link'd again the broken chain 

that bound me to my kind. 

Here to-day was Amy with me, while 
I wander'd down the coast, 

Near us Edith's holy shadow, smiling 
at the slighter ghost. 

Gone our sailor son thy father, Leonard 

early lost at sea ; 
Thou alone, my boy, of Amy's kin 

and mine art left to me. 

Gone thy tender-natured mother, 
wearying to be left alone, 

Pining for the stronger heart that once 
had beat beside her own. 

Truth, for truth is truth, he worshipt, 
being true as he was brave ; 

Good, for good is good, he fol- 
low'd, yet he look'd beyond the 
grave, 60 

Wiser there than you, that crowning 
barren Death as lord of all, 

Deem this over-tragic drama's closing 
curtain is the pall ! 

Beautiful was death in him, who 
saw the death, but kept the 
deck, 

Saving women and their babes, and 
sinking with the sinking wreck, 



LOCKSLEY HALL SIXTY YEARS AFTER 



6Si 






Gone for ever ! Ever ? no — for since 
our dying race began, 

Ever, ever, and for ever was the lead- 
ing light of man. 

Those that in barbarian burials kill'd 
the slave, and slew the wife 

Felt within themselves the sacred pas- 
sion of the second life. 

Indian warriors dream of ampler hunt- 
ing grounds beyond the night ; 

Even the black Australian dying hopes 
he shall return, a white. 70 



1 Forward ' rang the voices then, and 
of the many mine was one. 

Let us hush this cry of ' Forward ' till 
ten thousand years have gone. 

Far among the vanish' d races, old As- 
syrian kings would flay 

Captives whom they caught in battle 
— iron-hearted victors they. 80 

Ages after, while in Asia, he that led 

the wild Moguls, 
Timur built his ghastly tower of eighty 

thousand human skulls : 




' Sinking with the sinking wreck ' 



Truth for truth, and good for good ! 

The good, the true, the pure, 

the just — 
Take the charm ' For ever' from them, 

and they crumble into dust. 

Gone the cry of 'Forward, Forward,' 
lost within a growing gloom ; 

Lost, or only heard in silence from 
the silence of a tomb. 

Half the marvels of my morning, tri- 
umphs over time and space, 

Staled by frequence, shrunk by usage 
into commonest commonplace ! 



Then, and here in Edward's time, an 
age of noblest English names, 

Christian conquerors took and flung 
the conquer'd Christian into 
flames. 

Love your enemy, bless your haters, 
said the Greatest of the great ; 

Christian love among the Churches 
look'd the twin of heathen hate. 

From the golden alms of Blessing man 
had coin'd himself a curse: 

Rome of Caesar, Rome of Peter, which 
was crueller ? which was worse ? 



652 LOCKSLEY HALL SIXTY YEARS AFTER, ETC. 



France had shown a light to all men, 
preach'd a Gospel, all men's 
good ; 89 

Celtic Demos rose a Demon, shriek' d 
and slaked the light with blood. 

Hope was ever on her mountain, 
watching till the day begun — 

Crown'd with sunlight — over dark- 
ness — from the still unrisen 



Have we grown at last beyond the 
passions of the primal clan ? 

'Kill your enemy, for you hate him,' 
still, ' your enemy ' was a man. 

Have we sunk below them ? peasants 
maim the helpless horse, and 
drive 

Innocent cattle under thatch, and burn 
the kindlier brutes alive. 

Brutes, the brutes are not your 
wrongers — burnt at midnight, 
founaat morn, 

Twisted hard in mortal agony with 
their offspring, born-unborn, 

Clinging to the silent mother ! Are we 

devils ? are we men ? 
Sweet Saint Francis of Assisi, would 

that he were here again, 100 

He that in his Catholic wholeness used 
to call the very flowers 

Sisters, brothers — and the beasts — 
whose pains are hardly less than 
ours ! 

Chaos, Cosmos ! Cosmos, Chaos ! who 
can tell how all will end ? 

Read the wide world's annals, you, 
and take their wisdom for your 
friend. 

Hope the best, but hold the Present 
fatal daughter of the Past, 

Shape your heart to front the hour, 
but dream not that the hour 
will last. 

Ay, if dynamite and revolver leave 
you courage to be wise — 

When was age so cramm'd with men- 
ace ? madness ? written, spoken 
lies? 



Envy wears the mask of Love, and, 
laughing sober fact to scorn, 

Cries to weakest as to strongest, ' Ye 
are equals, equal-born.' no 

Equal-born ? O, yes, if yonder hill be 

level with the flat. 
Charm us, orator, till the lion look no 

larger than the cat, 

Till the cat thro' that mirage of over- 
heated language loom 

Larger than the lion, — Demos end in 
working its own doom. 

Russia bursts our Indian barrier, shall 
we fight her ? shall we yield ? 

Pause! before you sound the trumpet, 
hear the voices from the field. 

Those three hundred millions under 
one Imperial sceptre now, 

Shall we hold them? shall we loose 
them ? take the suffrage of the 
plow. 

Nay, but these would feel and follow 
Truth if only you and you, 

Rivals of realm-ruining party, when 
you speak were wholly true. 120 

Plowmen, shepherds, have I found, 
and more than once, and still 
could find, 

Sons of God, and kings of men in utter 
nobleness of mind, 

Truthful, trustful, looking upward to 
the practised hustings-liar ; 

So the higher wields the lower, while 
the lower is the higher. 

Here and there a cotter's babe is royal - 

born by right divine ; 
Here and there my lord is lower than 

his oxen or his swine. 

Chaos, Cosmos! Cosmos, Chaos! once 
again the sickening game ; 

Freedom, free to slay herself, and dy- 
ing while they shout her name. 

Step by step we gain'd a freedom 
known to Europe, known to all ; 

Step by step we rose to greatness, — 
thro' the tonguesters we may 
fall. 130 



LOCKSLEY HALL SIXTY YEARS AFTER 



653 



You that woo the Voices — tell them 
1 old experience is a fool/ 

Teach your flatter' d kings that only 
those who cannot read can rule. 

Pluck the mighty from their seat, but 
set no meek ones in their place ; 

Pillory Wisdom in your markets, pelt 
your offal at her face. 

Tumble Nature heel o'er head, and, 
yelling with the yelling street, 

Set the feet above the brain and swear 
the brain is in the feet. 

Bring the old dark ages back without 
the faith, without the hope, 

Break the State, the Church, the 
Throne, and roll their ruins 
down the slope. 

Authors — essayist, atheist, novelist, 
realist, rhymester, play your 
part, 

Paint the mortal shame of nature with 
the living hues of art. 140 

Rip your brothers' vices open, strip 
your own foul passions bare ; 

Down with Reticence, down with 
Reverence — forward — naked 
— let them stare. 

Feed the budding rose of boyhood with 
the drainage of your sewer ; 

Send the drain into the fountain, lest 
the stream should issue pure. 

Set the maiden fancies wallowing in 
the troughs of Zolaism, — 

Forward, forward, ay, and backward, 
downward too into the abysm ! 

Do your best to charm the worst, to 
lower the rising race of men ; 

Have we risen from out the beast, 
then back into the beast again ? 

Only * dust to dust ' for me that sicken 
at your lawless din, 

Dust in wholesome old-world dust be- 
fore the newer world begin. 150 

Heated am I ? you — you wonder — 
well, it scarce becomes mine 
age — 



Patience ! let the dying actor mouth 
his last upon the stage. 

Cries of unprogressive dotage ere the 

dotard fall asleep ? 
Noises of a current narrowing, not the 

music of a deep ? 

Ay, for doubtless I am old, and think 
gray thoughts, for I am gray ; 

After all the stormy changes shall we 
find a changeless May ? 

After madness, after massacre, Jaco- 
binism and Jacquerie, 

Some diviner force to guide us thro' 
the days I shall not see ? 

When the schemes and all the systems, 
kingdoms and republics fall, 

Something kindlier, higher, holier — 
all for each and each for all ? 160 

All the full-brain, half -brain races, led 
by Justice, Love, and Truth ; 

All the millions one at length with all 
the visions of my youth ? 

All diseases quench'd by Science, no 
man halt, or deaf, or blind ; 

Stronger ever born of weaker, lustier 
body, larger mind ? 

Earth at last a warless world, a single 
race, a single tongue — 

I have seen her far away — for is not 
Earth as yet so young ? — 

Every tiger madness muzzled, every 

serpent passion kill'd, 
Every grim ravine a garden, every 

blazing desert till'd, 

Robed in universal harvest up to 

either pole she smiles, 
Universal ocean softly washing all her 

warless isles. 170 

Warless? when her tens are thou- 
sands, and her thousands mil- 
lions, then — 

All her harvest all too narrow — who 
can fancy warless men ? 

Warless? war will die out late then. 
Will it ever ? late or soon ? 



654 LOCKSLEY HALL SIXTY YEARS AFTER, ETC. 



Can it, till this outworn earth be 
dead as yon dead world the 
moon? 

Dead the new astronomy calls her. — 
On this day and at this hour, 

In this gap between the sandhills, 
whence you see the Locksley 
tower, 

Here we met, our latest meeting — 
Amy — sixty years ago — 

She and I — the moon was falling 
greenish thro' a rosy glow, 

Just above the gateway tower, and 
even where you see her now — 

Here we stood and claspt each other, 
swore the seeming -deathless 

VOW. — • 180 

Dead, but how her living glory lights 
the hall, the dune, the grass ! 

Yet the moonlight is the sunlight, and 
the sun himself will pass. 

Venus near her ! smiling downward at 
this earthlier earth of ours, 

Closer on the sun, perhaps a world of 
never fading flowers. 



Hesper, whom the poet call'd the 
Bringer liome of all good 
things — 

All good things may move in Hesper, 
perfect peoples, perfect kings. 



Hesper — Yenus — were we native to 
that splendor or in Mars, 

We should see the globe we groan in, 
fairest of their evening stars. 

Could we dream of wars and carnage, 
craft and madness, lust and 
spite, 

Roaring London, raving Paris, in that 
point of peaceful light ? 190 

Might we not in glancing heavenward 
on a star so silver-fair, 

Yearn, and clasp the hands and mur- 
mur, ' Would to God that we 
were there ' ? 

Forward, backward, backward, for- 
ward, in the immeasurable sea, 



Sway'd by vaster ebbs and flows than 
can be known to you or me. 

All the suns — are these but symbols 

of innumerable man, 
Man or Mind that sees a shadow of the 

planner or the plan ? 

Is there evil but on earth ? or pain in 
every peopled sphere ? 

Well, be grateful for the sounding 
watchword ' Evolution ' here, 

Evolution ever climbing after some 
ideal good, 

And Reversion ever dragging Evolu- 
tion in the mud. 200 

What are men that He should heed us ? 

cried the king of sacred song ; 
Insects of an hour, that hourly work 

their brother insect wrong, 

While the silent heavens roll, and suns 

along their fiery way, 
All their planets whirling round them, 

flash a million miles a day. 

Many an seon moulded earth before 
her highest, man, was born, 

Many an aeon too may pass when earth 
is manless and forlorn, 

Earth so huge, and yet so bounded — 
pools of salt, and plots of land — 

Shallow skin of green and azure — 
chains of mountain, grains of 
sand ! 

Only That which made us meant us to 
be mightier by and by, 209 

Set the sphere of all the boundless 
heavens within the human eye, 

Sent the shadow of Himself, the 
boundless, thro' the human soul; 

Boundless inward in the atom, bound- 
less outward in the Whole. 



Here is Locksley Hall, my grandson, 
here the lion- guarded gate. 

Not to-night in Locksley Hall — to- 
morrow — you, you come so 
late. 



LOCKSLEY HALL SIXTY YEARS AFTER 



655 




1 In this gap between the sandhills, whence you see the Locksley tower, 
Here we met, our latest meeting — Amy — sixty years ago ' 



Wreck'd — your train — or all but 
wreck'd ? a shatter'd wheel ? a 
vicious boy ! 

Good, this forward, you that preach 
it, is it well to wish you joy ? 

Is it well that while we range with 
Science, glorying in the Time, 

City children soak and blacken soul 
and sense in city slime ? 

There among the glooming alleys Pro- 
gress halts on palsied feet, 

Crime and hunger cast our maidens by 
the thousand on the street. 220 



There the master scrimps his haggard 
sempstress of her daily bread, 

There a single sordid attic holds the 
living and the dead. 

There the smouldering fire of fever 
creeps across the rotted floor, 

And the crowded couch of incest in 
the warrens of the poor. 



Nay, 



your 
hope 



For- 
aud 



your pardon, cry 
ward/ yours are 
youth, but I — 
Eighty winters leave the dog too lame 
to follow with the cry, 



656 LOCKSLEY HALL SIXTY YEARS AFTER, ETC. 



Lame and old, and past his time, and 
passing now into the night ; 

Yet I would the rising race were half 
as eager for the light. 

Light the fading gleam of even? 
light the glimmer of the dawn ? 

Aged eyes may take the growing glim- 
mer for the gleam withdrawn. 

Far away beyond her myriad coming 
changes earth will be 231 

^ething other than the wildest 
^odern guess of you and me. 

Eartl • reach her earthly -worst, or 

-he gain her earthly-best, 
i she find her human offspring 
his ideal man at rest ? 

Forward then, but still remember how 
the course of Time will swerve, 

Crook and turn upon itself in many a 
backward streaming curve. 

Not the Hall to-night, my grandson ! 

Death and Silence hold their 

own. 
Leave the master in the first dark 

hour of his last sleep alone. 

Worthier soul was he than I am, sound 
and honest, rustic Squire, 

Kindly landlord, boon companion — 
youthful 3 ealousy is a liar. 240 

Cast the poison from your bosom, oust 
the madness from your brain. 

Let the trampled serpent show you 
that you have not lived in 



Youthful ! youth and age are scholars 
yet but in the lower school, 

Nor is he the wisest man who never 
proved himself a fool. 

Yonder lies our young sea-village — 
Art and Grace are less and 
less: 

Science grows and Beauty dwindles — 
roofs of slated hideousness ! 

There is one old hostel left us where 
they swing the Locksley shield, 



Till the peasant cow shall butt the 
* lion passant ' from his field. 

Poor old Heraldry, poor old History, 
poor old Poetry, passing hence, 

In the common deluge drowning old 
political common-sense ! 250 

Poor old voice of eighty crying after 

voices that have fled ! 
All I loved are vanish'd voices, all my 

steps are on the dead. 

All the world is ghost to me, and as 
the phantom disappears, 

Forward far and far from here is all 
the hope of eighty years. 



In this hostel — I remember — I repent 

it o'er his grave — 
Like a clown — by chance he met me 

— I refused the hand he gave. 

From that casement where the trailer 
mantles all the mouldering 
bricks — 

I was then in early boyhood, Edith 
but a child of six — 

While I shelter' d in this archway from 
a day of driving showers — 

Peept the winsome face of Edith like 
a flower among the flowers. 260 

Here to-night !' the Hall to-morrow, 
when they toll the chapel bell ! 

Shall I hear in one dark room a wail- 
ing, ' I have loved thee well ' ? 

Then a peal that shakes the portal — 

one has come to claim his 

bride, 
Her that shrank, and put me from 

her, shriek'd, and started from 

my side — 

Silent echoes ! You, my Leonard, use 
and not abuse your day, 

Move among your people, know them, 
follow him who led the way, 

Strove for sixty widow'd years to 
help his homelier brother men, 






THE INDIAN AND COLONIAL EXHIBITION 657 



erved the poor, and built the cot- 
tage, raised the school, and 
drain'd the fen. 

lears he now the voice that wrong' d 
him ? who shall swear it cannot 
be? 

Earth would never touch her worst, 
were one in fifty such as he. 270 

Ere she gain her heavenly-best, a God 
must mingle with the game. 

Nay, there may be those about us 
whom we neither see nor name, 

Felt within us as ourselves, the Powers 
of Good, the Powers of 111, 

Strowing balm, or shedding poison in 
the fountains of the will. 

Follow you the star that lights a 
desert pathway, yours or mine. 

Forward, till you see the Highest 
Human Nature is divine. 

Follow Light, and do the Right — 
for man can half -control his 
doom — 

Till you find the deathless Angel seated 
in the vacant tomb. 

Forward, let the stormy moment fly 
«and mingle with the past. 

I that loathed have come to love 
him. Love will conquer at the 
last. 280 

Gone at eighty, mine own age, and I 
and you will bear the pall ; 

Then I leave thee lord and master, 
latest lord of Locksley Hall. 



THE FLEET 



You, you, if you shall fail to under- 
stand 
What England is, and what her all- 
in-all, 
On you will come the curse of all the 
land, 
Should this old England fall 

Which Nelson left so great. 



His isle, the mightiest Ocean-power 
on earth, 
Our own fair isle, the lord of every 
sea — 
Her fuller franchise — what would 
that be worth — 
Her ancient fame of Free — 

Were she ... a fallen state ? 



Her dauntless army scatter' d, and so 
small, 
Her island-myriads fed from alien 
lands — 
The fleet of England is her all-in-all ; 
Her fleet is in your hands, 

And in her fleet her fate. 



You, you, that have the ordering of 
her fleet, 
If you should only compass her dis- 
grace, 
When all men starve, the wild mob's 
million feet 
Will kick you from your place, 
But then too late, too late. 



OPENING OF THE INDIAN AND 
COLONIAL EXHIBITION BY 
THE QUEEN 

WRITTEN AT THE REQUEST OF THE 
PRINCE OF WALES 



Welcome, welcome with one voice ! 
In your welfare we rejoice, 
Sons and brothers that have sent, 
From isle and cape and continent, 
Produce of your field and flood, 
Mount and mine, and primal wood ; 
Works of subtle brain and hand, 
And splendors of the morning land, 
Gifts from every British zone ; 
Britons, hold your own ! 



May we find, as ages run, 
The mother featured in the son ; 
And may yours for ever be 
That old strength and constancy 



6$8 LOCKSLEY HALL SIXTY YEARS AFTER, ETC. 



Which has made your fathers great 
In our ancient island State, 
And wherever her flag fly, 
Glorying between sea and sky. 
Makes the might of Britain known ; 
Britons, hold your own ! 



Britain fought her sons of yore — 
Britain fail'd ; and never more, 
Careless of our growing kin, 
Shall we sin our fathers' sin, 
Men that in a narrower day — 
Unprophetic rulers they — 
Drove from out the mother's nest 
That young eagle of the West 
To forage for herself alone ; 
Britons, hold your own ! 



Sharers of our glorious past, 
Brothers, must we part at last ? 
Shallwe not thro' good and ill 
Cleave to one another still ? 
Britain's myriad voices call, 
* Sons, be welded each and all 
Into one imperial whole, 
One with Britain, heart and soul ! 
One life, one flag, one fleet, one 
throne ! ' 
Britons, hold your own ! 



TO W. C. M ACRE AD Y 

1851 

Farewell, Macready, since to-night 
we part ; 
Full-handed thunders often have 

confessed 
Thy power, well-used to move the 
public breast. 
We thank thee with our voice, and 

from the heart. 
Farewell, Macready, since this night 
we part, 
Go, take thine honors home ; rank 

with the best, 
Garrick and statelier Kemble, and 
the rest 
Who made a nation purer through 

their art. 
Thine is it that our drama did not die, 
Nor flicker down to brainless panto- 
mime, 
And those gilt gauds men-children 

swarm to see. 
Farewell, Macready, moral, grave, 
sublime ; 
Our Shakespeare's bland and univer- 
sal eye 
Dwells pleased, through twice a 
hundred years, on thee. 







Queen Victoria 



DEMETER AND OTHER POEMS 



TO THE MARQUIS OF DUF- 
FERIN AND AVA 



At times our Britain cannot rest, 
At times her steps are swift and 

rash ; 
She moving, at her girdle clash 

The golden keys of East and West. 



Not swift or rash, when late she lent 
The sceptres of her West, her East, 
To one that ruling has increased 

Her greatness and her self-content. 

in 
Your rule has made the people love 
Their ruler. Your viceregal days 



66o 



DEMETER AND OTHER POEMS 



Have added fulness to the phrase 
Of 'Gauntlet in the velvet glove/ 



But since your name will grow with 
time, 
Not all, as honoring your fair fame 
Of Statesman, have I made the 
name 
A golden portal to my rhyme ; 



But more, that you and yours may 
know 
From me and mine, how dear a debt 
We owed you. and are owing yet 
To you and yours, and still would 
owe. 

VI 

For he — your India was his Fate, 
And drew him over sea to you — 
He fain had ranged her thro' and 
thro', 

To serve her myriads and the State, — 



VII 

watch' d 



from earliest 



A soul that, 
youth, 
And on thro' many a brightening 

year, 
Had never swerved for craft or fear, 
By one side- path, from simple truth ; 

VIII 

Who might have chased and claspt 
Renown 
And caught her chaplet here — and 

there 
In haunts of jungle-poison' d air 
The flame of life went wavering 
down ; 



But ere he left your fatal shore, 
And lay on that funereal boat, 
Dying,~ * Unspeakable/ he wrote, 

'Their kindness,' and he wrote no 
more; 



And sacred is the latest word ; 

And now the Was, the Might-have- 
been, 

And those lone rites I have not seen, 
And one drear sound I have not heard, 



Are dreams that scarce will let me be 
Not there to bid my boy farewell, 
When That within the coffin fell, 

Fell — and flash'd into the Red Sea, 

XII 

Beneath a hard Arabian moon 

And alien stars. To question why 
The sons before the fathers die, 

Not mine ! and I may meet him soon ; 

XIII 

But while my life's late eve endures, 
Nor settles into hueless gray, 
My memories of his briefer day 

Will mix with love for you and yours. 



ON THE JUBILEE OF QUEEN 
VICTORIA 



Fifty times the rose has flower'd and 

faded, 
Fifty times the golden harvest fallen, 
Since our Queen assumed the globe, 

the sceptre. 



She beloved for a kindliness 
Rare in fable or history, 
Queen, and Empress of India, 
Crown'd so long with a diadem 
Never worn by a worthier. 
Now with prosperous auguries 
Comes at last to the bounteous 
Crowning year of her Jubilee. 



Nothing of the lawless, of the despot, 
Nothing of the vulgar, or vainglorious, 
All is gracious, gentle, great and 
queenly. 



You then joyfully, all of you, 
Set the mountain aflame to-night, 
Shoot your stars to the firmament, 
Deck your houses, illuminate 
All your towns for a festival, 
And in each let a multitude 
Loyal, each, to the heart of it, 
One full voice of allegiance, 
Hail the fair Ceremonial 
Of this year of her Jubilee. 






DEMETER AND PERSEPHONE 



661 



Queen, as true to womanhood as 

Queenhood, 
Glorying in the glories of her people, 
Sorrowing with the sorrows of the 

lowest ! 



You, that wanton in affluence, 
Spare not now to be bountiful, 
Call your poor to regale with you, 
All the lowly, the destitute, 
Make their neighborhood health- 
fuller, 
Give your gold to the hospital, 
Let the weary be comforted, 
Let the needy be banqueted, 
Let the maim'd in his heart rejoice 
At this glad Ceremonial, 
And this year of her Jubilee. 



Henry's fifty years are all in shadow, 
Gray with distance Edward's fifty 

summers, 
Even her Grandsire's fifty half forgot- 
ten. 



You, the Patriot Architect, 
You that shape for eternity, 
Raise a stately memorial, 
Make it regally gorgeous, 
Some Imperial Institute, 
Rich in symbol, in ornament, 
Which may speak to the centuries, 
All the centuries after us, 
Of this great Ceremonial, 
And this year of her Jubilee. 

IX 

Fifty years of ever-broadening Com- 
merce ! 

Fifty years of ever-brightening Sci- 
ence ! 

Fifty years of ever- widening Empire ! 



You, the Mighty, the Fortunate, 
You, the Lord- territorial, 
You, the Lord-manufacturer, 
You, the hardy, laborious, 
Patient children of Albion, 
You, Canadian, Indian, 
Australasian, African, 
All your hearts be in harmony, 



All your voices in unison, 
Singing, ' Hail to the glorious 
Golden year of her Jubilee ! ' 



Are there thunders moaning in the 

distance ? 
Are there spectres moving in the dark- 
ness ? 
Trust the Hand of Light will lead her 

people, 
Till the thunders pass, the spectres 

vanish, 
And the Light is Victor, and the dark- 
ness- 
Dawns into the Jubilee of the Ages. 

TO PROFESSOR JEBB 

WITH THE FOLLOWING POEM 

Fair things are slow to fade away, 
Bear witness you, that yesterday * 
From out the Ghost of Pindar in 
you 
Roll'd an Olympian ; and they say 2 

That here the torpid mummy wheat 
Of Egypt bore a .grain as sweet 

As that which gilds the glebe of 
England, 
Sunn'd with a summer of milder heat. 

So may this legend for awhile, 
If greeted by your classic smile, 

Tho' dead in its Trinacrian Enna, 
Blossom again on a colder isle. 



DEMETER AND PERSEPHONE 

(in enna) 

cli 

flies 
All night across the darkness, and at 

dawn 
Falls on the threshold of her native 

land, 
And can no more, thou earnest, my 

child. 
Led upward by the God of ghosts and 

dreams, 

i In Bologna. 

s They say, for the fact is doubtful. 



662 



DEMETER AND OTHER POEMS 



Who laid thee at Eleusis, dazed and 
dumb 

With passing thro' at once from state 
to state, 

Until I brought thee hither, that the 
day, 

When here thy hands let fall the 
gather'd flower, 

Might break thro' clouded memories 
once again 10 

On thy lost self. A sudden nightingale 

Saw thee, and flash' d into a frolic of 
song 

And welcome ; and a gleam as of the 
moon, 

When first she peers along the tremu- 
lous deep, 

]J1 ed wavering o'er thy face, and 
chased away 

That shadow of a likeness to the king 

Of shadows, thy dark mate. Per- 
sephone ! 

Queen of the dead no more — my 
child ! Thine eyes 

Again were human-godlike, and the 
Sun 

Burst from a swimming fleece of win- 
ter gray, 20 

And robed thee in his day from head 
to feet — 

* Mother ! ' and I was folded in thine 
arms. 

Child, those imperial, disimpassion'd 

eyes 
Awed even me at first, thy mother — 

eyes 
That oft had seen the serpent- wanded 

power 
Draw downward into Hades with his 

drift 
Of flickering spectres, lighted from 

below 
By the red race of fiery Phlegethon ; 
But when before have Gods or men 

beheld 
The Life that had descended re-arise, 
And lighted from above him by the 

Sun? 31 

So mighty was the mother's childless 

cry, 
A cry that rang thro' Hades, Earth, 

and Heaven I 

So in this pleasant vale we stand 
again, 



The field of Enna, now once more 

ablaze 
With flowers that brighten as thy foot- 
step falls, 
All flowers — but for one black blur 

of earth 
Left by that closing chasm, thro' which 

the car 
Of dark Ai'doneus rising rapt thee 

hence. 
And here, my child, tho' folded in 

thine arms, 40 

I feel the deathless heart of motherhood 
Within me shudder, lest the naked 

glebe 
Should yawn once more into the gulf, 

and thence 
The shrilly whinnyings of the team of 

Hell, 
Ascending, pierce the glad and song- 
ful air, 
And all at once their arch'd necks, 

midnight-maned, 
Jet upward thro' the midday blossom. 

No! 
For, see, thy foot has touch'd it; all 

the space 
Of blank earth-baldness clothes itself 

afresh, 
And breaks into the crocus-purple 

hour 50 

That saw thee vanish. 

Child, when thou wert gone, 
I envied human wives, and nested 

birds, 
Yea, the cubb'd lioness ; w T ent in 

search of thee 
Thro' many a palace, many a cot, and 

gave 
Thy breast to ailing infants in the 

night, 
And set the mother waking in amaze 
To find her sick one whole ; and forth 

again 
Among the wail of midnight winds, 

and cried, 
4 Where is my loved one ? Wherefore 

do ye wail ? ' 
And out from all the night an answer 

shrill'd, 60 

1 We know not, and we know not why 

we wail.' 
I climb'd on all the cliffs of all the seas, 
And ask'd the waves that moan about 

the world, 



inds, 



DEMETER AND PERSEPHONE 



663 



Where ? do ye make your moaning 

for my child ? ' 
nd round from all the world the 

voices came, 
We know not, and we know not why 

we moan.' 
Where ? ' and I stared from every 

eagle-peak, 
thridded the black heart of all the 

woods, 
peer'd thro' tomb and cave, and in 

the storms 
f autumn swept across the city, and 

heard 70 

he murmur of their temples chanting 

me, 
e, me, the desolate mother ! ' Where? ' 

— and turn'd, 
nd fled by many a waste, forlorn of 

man, 
nd grieved for man thro' all my grief 

for thee, — 
he jungle rooted in his shatter'd 

hearth, 
he serpent coil'd about his broken 

shaft, 
he scorpion crawling over naked 

skulls ; — 
I saw the tiger in the ruin'd fane 
Spring from his fallen God, but trace 

of thee 
I saw not ; and far on, and, following 

tout 80 

l league of labyrinthine darkness, 
came 
)n three gray heads beneath a gleam- 
ing rift. 
Where ? ' and I heard one voice from 
all the three, 
We know not, for we spin the lives 
of men, 
And not of Gods, and know not why 

we spin ! 
There is a Fate beyond us/ Nothing 
knew. 

Last as the likeness of a dying 
man, 

Without his knowledge, from him flits 
to warn 

A far-off friendship that he comes no 
more, 

So he, the God of dreams, who heard 
my cry, 9° 

Drew from thyself the likeness of thy- 
self 



Without thy knowledge, and thy 
shadow past 

Before me, crying, ' The Bright one in 
the highest 

Is brother of the Dark one in the low- 
est, 

And Bright and Dark have sworn that 
I, the child 

Of thee, the great Earth-Mother, thee, 
the Power 

That lifts her buried life from gloom 
to bloom, 

Should be for ever and for evermore 

The Bride of Darkness.' 

So the Shadow wail'd. 
Then I, Earth -Goddess, cursed the 

Gods of heaven. 100 

I would not mingle with their feasts ; 

to me 
Their nectar smack' d of hemlock on 

the lips, 
Their rich ambrosia tasted aconite. 
The man, that only lives and loves an 

hour, 
Seem'd nobler than their hard eterni- 
ties. 
My quick tears kill'd the flower, my 

ravings hush'd 
The bird, and lost in utter grief I 

fail'd 
To send my life thro' olive-yard and 

vine 
And golden-grain, my gift to helpless 

man. 
Rain-rotten died the wheat, the barley- 
spears no 
Were hollow-husk'd, the leaf fell, and 

the Sun, 
Pale at my grief, drew down before 

his time 
Sickening, and iEtna kept her winter 

snow. 

Then He, the brother of this Dark- 
ness, He 

Who still is highest, glancing from his 
height 

On earth a fruitless fallow, when he 
miss'd 

The wonted steam of sacrifice, the 
praise 

And prayer of men, decreed that thou 
should st dwell 

For nine white moons of each whole 
year with me, 






66 4 



DEMETER AND OTHER POEMS 



! 



Three dark ones in the shadow with 
thy king. 120 

Once more the reaper in the gleam 

of dawn 
Will see me by the landmark far 

away, 
Blessing his field, or seated in the 

dusk 
Of even, by the lonely threshing-floor, 
Rejoicing in the harvest and the 

grange. 

Yet I, Earth-Goddess, am but ill- 
content 
With them who still are highest. 

Those gray heads, 
What meant they by their 'Fate be- 
yond the Fates ' 
But younger kindlier Gods to bear us 

down, 
As we bore down the Gods before us ? 

Gods, . 130 

To quench, not hurl the thunderbolt, 

to stay, 
Not spread the plague, the famine ; 

Gods indeed, 
To send the noon into the night and 

break 
The sunless halls of Hades into Hea- 
ven? 
Till thy dark lord accept and love the 

Sun, 
And all the Shadow die into the Light, 
When thou shalt dwell the whole 

bright year with me, 
And souls of men, who grew beyond 

their race, 
And made themselves as Gods against 

the fear 
Of Death and Hell ; and thou that 

hast from men, 140 

As Queen of Death, that worship 

which is Fear, 
Henceforth, as having risen from out 

the dead, 
Shalt ever send thy life along with 

mine 
From buried grain thro' springing 

blade, and bless 
Their garner'd autumn also, reap with 

me, 
Earth-mother, in the harvest hymns of 

Earth 
The worship which is Love, and see 

no more 



The Stone, the W r heel, the dimly-glim- 
mering lawns 

Of that Elysium, all the hateful fires 

Of torment, and the shadowy warrior 
glide 150 

Along the silent field of Asphodel. 



OWD ROA 1 

Naay, noa mander 2 o' use to be callin' 

'imRoa, Roil, Roa, 
Fur the dog 's stoan-deaf , an' 'e 's blind, 

'e can naither stan' nor goa. 

But I means fur to maake 'is owd aage 

as 'appy as iver I can, 
Fur I owas owd Roaver moor nor I 

iver owad mottal man. 

Thou 's rode of 'is back when a babby, 
afoor thou was gotten too owd, 

Fur 'e 'd fetch an' carry like owt, 'e 
was alius as good as gowd. 



Eh, but 'e 'd fight wi' a will when 'e 
fowt ; 'e could howd 3 'is oan, 

An' Roa was the dog as knaw'd when 
an' wheere to bury his boane. 

An' 'e kep his head hoop like a king, 
an' 'e 'd niver not down wi' 'is 
taail, 

Fur 'e 'd niver done nowt to be 
shaamed on, when we was i' 
Howlaby Daale. 10 

An' 'e sarved me sa well when 'e 
lived, that, Dick, when 'e cooms 
to be dead, 

I thinks as I'd like fur to hev soom 
soort of a sarvice read. 

Fur 'e 's moor good sense na the Par- 
liament man 'at stans fur us 
'ere, 

An' I 'd voat fur 'im, my oan sen, if 'e 
could but stan' for the Shere. 

1 Faaithf ul an' True ' — them words be 
i' Scriptur — an' Faaithf ul an' 
True 
Ull be fun' upo' four short legs ten 
times fur one upo' two. 
1 Old Rover. 2 Manner. 

3 Hold. 4 Found. 



OWD ROA 



665 



An' maaybe they'll walk upo' two, 
but I knaws they runs upo' 
four, 1 — 

Bedtime, Dicky! but waait till tha 
'ears it be strikin' the hour. 

Fur I wants to tell tha o' Boa when 
we lived i' Howlaby Daale, 

Ten year sin' — Naay — naay ! tha mun 
nobbut hev' one glass of aale. 20 

Straange an' owd-farran'd 2 the 'ouse, 
an' belt 3 long afoor my daay, 

Wi' haafe o' the chimleys a-twizzen'd 4 
an' twined like a band o' haay. 

The fellers as maakes them picturs, 
'ud coom at the fall o' the year, 

An' sat tie their ends upo' stools to 
pictur the door-poorch theere, 

An' the Heagle 'as hed two heads 
stannin' theere o' the brokken 
stick ; 5 

An' they niver 'ed seed sich ivin' 6 as 
graw'd hall ower the brick ; 

An' theere i' the 'ouse one night — but 
it 's down, an' all on it now 

Goan into mangles an' tonups, 7 an' 
raaved slick thruf by the plow — 

Theere, when the 'ouse wur a house, 
one night I wur sittin' aloan, 

Wi' Roaver athurt my feeat, an' 
sleeapin' still as a stoan, 30 

Of a Christmas Eave, an' as cowd as 
this, an' the midders 8 as white, 

An' the fences all on 'em bolster'd oop 
wi' the windle 9 that night ; 

An' the cat wur a-sleeapin' alongside 
Roaver, but I wur awaake, 

An' smoakin' an' thinkin' o' things — 
Doant maake thysen sick wi' 
the caake. 

Fur the men ater supper 'ed sung their 
songs an' 'ed 'ed their beer, 

1 ou as in 'house.' 

2 'Owd-farran'd,' old-fashioned. 

3 Built. 4 'Twizzen'd,' twisted. 
5 On a staff ragule. 6 Ivy. 

7 Mangolds and turnips. 

8 Meadows. 9 Drifted snow. 



An' 'ed goan their waays ; ther was 
nobbut three, an noan on 'em 
theere. 

They was all on 'em fear'd o' the 
Ghoast an' duss n't not sleeap i' 
the 'ouse, 

But, Dicky, the Ghoast moastlins 1 
was nobbut a rat or a mouse. 

An' I loookt out wonst 2 at the night, 
an' the daale was all of a thaw, 

Fur I seed the beck coomin' down like 
a long black snaake i' the snaw, 

An' I heard great heaps o' the snaw 
slushin' down fro' the bank to 
the beck, 

An' then as I stood i' the doorwaay, I 
feeald it drip o' my neck. 

Saw I turn'd in agean, an' I thowt o' 
the good owd times 'at was goan, 

An' the munney they maade by the 
war, an' the times 'at was 
coomin' on ; 

Fur I thowt if the Staate was a-gawin' 
to let in furriners' wheat, 

Howiver was British farmers to stan' 
agean o' their feeat ? 

Howiver was I fur to find my rent an' 

to paay my men ? 
An' all along o' the feller 3 as turn'd 

'is back of hissen. 

Thou slep i' the chaumber above us, 
we could n't ha' 'eard tha call, 

Sa moother 'ed tell'd ma to bring tha 
down, an' thy craadle an' all ; 50 

Fur the gell o' the farm 'at slep wi' 
tha then 'ed gotten wer leave, 

Fur to goa that night to 'er foalk by 
cause o' the Christmas Eave ; 

But I clean forgot tha, my lad, when 
moother 'ed gotten to bed, 

An' I slep i' my chair hup-on-end, an' 
the Freea Traade runn'd T my 
'ead, 



all 



1 'Moastlins,' for the most part, gener- 



7 



Once. 



a Peel. 



666 



DEMETER AND OTHER POEMS 



Till I dream'd 'at Squire walkt in, an' 

I says to him, 'Squire, ya 're 

laate,' 
Then I seed 'at 'is faace wur as red as 

the Yule-block theere i' the 

graate. 

An' 'e says, ' Can ya paay me the rent 

to-night?' an' I says to 'im, 

'Noa,' 
An' 'e cotch'd howd hard o' my hairm, 1 

'Then hout to-night tha shall 

goa.' 

'Tha '11 niver,' says I, 'be a-turnin' 
ma hout upo' Christmas Eave ? ' 

Then I waaked an' I fun it was Roaver 
a-tuggin' an' tearin' my sleave. 

An' I thowt as 'e 'd goan clean-wud, 2 
fur I noawaays knaw'd 'is in- 
tent ; 61 

An' I says, ' Git awaay, ya beast,' an' 
I fetcht 'im a kick, an' 'e went. 

Then 'e tummled up stairs, fur I 'eard 
'im, as if 'e 'd 'a brokken 'is 
neck, 

An' I 'd clear forgot, little Dicky, thy 
chaumber door would n't sneck ; 3 

An* I slep i' my chair agean wi' my 
hairm hingin' down to the floor, 

An' I thowt it was Roaver a-tuggin' 
an' tearin' me wuss nor afoor, 

An' I thowt 'at I kick'd 'im agean, 
but I kick'd thy moother istead. 

'What arta snorin' theere fur? the 
house is afire,' she said. 

Thy moother 'ed bean a-naggin' about 
the gell o' the farm, 

She offens 'ud spy summut wrong 
when there warn't not a mossel 
o' harm ; 70 

An' she did n't not solidly mean I wur 
gawin' that waay to the bad, 

Fur the gell 4 was as howry a troll ope 
as iver traapes'd i' the squad. 

1 Arm. 2 Mad. 3 Latch. 

4 ' The girl was as dirty a slut as ever 
trudged in the mud,' but there is a sense 
of slatternliness in 'traapes'd' which is 
not expressed in 'trudged.' 



But moother was free of 'er tongue, 
as I offens 'ev tell'd 'er my sen, 

Sa I kep i' my chair, fur I thowt she 
was nobbut a-rilin' ma then. 

An' I says, ' I 'd be good to tha, Bess, 

if tha'd onywaays let ma be 

good,' 
But she skelpt ma haafe ower i' the 

chair, an' screead like a howl 

gone wud 1 — 

'Ya mun run fur the lether. 2 Git 

oop, if ya 're onywaays good 

for owt.' 
x\nd I says, 'If I beant noawaays 

— not nowadaays — good fur 

nowt — 

' Yit I beant sich a nowt 3 of all nowts 
as 'ull hallus do as 'e 's bid.' 

'But the stairs is afire,' she said; then 
I seed 'er a-cryin', I did. 80 

An' she beald, 'Ya mun saave little 
Dick, an' be sharp about it an' 
all,' 

Sa I runs to the yard fur a lether, an* 
sets 'im agean the wall, 

An' I claums an' I mashes the winder 
hin, when I gits to the top, 

But the heat druv hout i' my heyes 
till I f eald mysen ready to drop. 

Thy moother was howdin' the lether, 
an' tellin' me not to be skeard, 

An' I wasn't afeard, or I thinks least- 
waays as I was n't afeard ; 

But I couldn't see fur the smoake 
wheere thou was a-liggin, my 
lad, 

An' Roaver was theere i' the chaumber 
a-yowlin' an' yaupin' like mad ; 

An' thou was a-bealin' likewise, an' 
a-squealin', as if tha was bit, 

An' it was n't a bite but a burn, fur the 
merk 's 4 o' thy shou'der yit ; 90 

1 ' She half overturned me and shrieked 
like an owl gone mad.' 

2 Ladder. 

3 A thoroughly insignificant or worthless 
person. 

* Mark. 






VASTNESS 



667 



Then I call'd out, 'Roa, Roa, Roa,' 
thaw I did n't haafe think as 'e 
'd 'ear, 

But 'e coom'd thruf tliefire wi my bairn 
i' Hs mouth to the winder theere ! 

He coom'd like a hangel o' marcy as 
soon as 'e 'eard 'is naame, 

Or like tother hangel i' Scriptur 'at 
summun seed i' the naame, 

When summun 'ed hax'd fur a son, 
an' 'e promised a son to she, 

An' Roa was as good as the hangel i' 
saavin' a son fur me. 

Sa I browt tha down, an' I says, ' I mun 
gaw up agean fur Roa. ' , 

1 Gaw up agean fur the varmint ? ' I 
telFd 'er, 'Yeas, I mun goa.' 

An' I claumb'd up agean to the win- 
der, an' clemm'd 1 owd Roa by 
the 'ead, 

An' 'is 'air coom'd off i' my 'ands an' I 
taaked 'im at fust fur dead ; 100 

Fur 'e smell'd like a herse a-singein', 
an' seeam'd as blind as a poop, 

An' haafe on 'im bare as a bublin. 2 I 
could n't wakken 'im oop, 

But I browt 'im down, an' we got to 
the barn, fur the barn would n't 
burn 

Wi' the wind blawin' hard tother waay, 
an' the wind was n't like to turn. 

An' I kep a-callin' o' Roa till 'e wag- 
gled 'is taail fur a bit, 

But the cocks kep a-crawin' an' craw- 
in' all night, an' I 'ears 'em yit ; 

An' the dogs was a-yowlin' all round, 
and thou was a-squealin' thysen, 

An' moother was naggin' an' groanin' 
an' moanin' an' naggin' agean ; 

An' I 'eard the bricks an' the baulks 3 
rummle down when the roof 
gev waay, 

Fur the fire was a-raagin' an' raavin' 
an' roarin' like judgment daay. 

1 Clutched. 

2 ' Bubbling,' a young unfledged bird. 

3 Beams. 



Warm enew theere sewer-ly, but the 
barn was as cowd as owt, m 

An' we cuddled and huddled togither, 
an' happt 1 wersens oop as we 
mowt. 

An' I browt Roa round, but moother 
'ed bean sa soak'd wi' the thaw 

'At she cotch'd 'er death o' cowd that 
night, poor soul, i' the straw. 

Haafe o' the parish runn'd oop when 
the rig-tree 2 was tummlin' in — 

Too laate — but it's all ower now — 
hall hower — an' ten year sin' ; 

Too laate, tha mun git tha to bed, 
but I '11 coom an' I '11 squeuch 
the light, 

Fur we moant 'ev naw moor fires — 
and soa, little Dick, good-night. 



VASTNESS 

1 
Many a hearth upon our dark globe 

sighs after many a vanish' d 

face, 
Many a planet by many a sun may 

roll with the dust of a vanish'd 

race. 



Raving politics, never at rest — as this 
poor earth's pale history runs, — 

What is it all but a trouble of ants in 
the gleam of a million million 
of suns ? 

in 
Lies upon this side, lies upon that 

side, truthless violence mourn'd 

by the wise, 
Thousands of voices drowning his own 

in a popular torrent of lies upon 

lies ; 

IV 

Stately purposes, valor in battle, glo- 
rious annals of army and fleet , 

Death for the right cause, death for 
the wrong cause, trumpets of 
victory, groans of defeat ; 

1 Wrapt ourselves. 

2 The beam that runs along the roof of 
the house just beneath the ridge. 



668 



DEMETER AND OTHER POEMS 



v 

Innocence seethed in her mother's 
milk, and Charity setting the 
martyr aflame ; 

Thraldom who walks with the banner 
of Freedom, and recks not to 
ruin a realm in her name. 



Faith at her zenith, er all but lost in 

the gloom of doubts that darken 

the schools ; 
Craft with a bunch of all-heal in her 

hand, follow 'd up by her vassal 

legion of fools ; 

VII 

Trade flying over a thousand seas with 

her spice and her vintage, her 

silk and her corn ; 
Desolate offing, sailorless harbors, 

famishing populace, wharves 

forlorn ; 

VIII 

Star of the morning, Hope in the sun- 
rise ; gloom of the evening, Life 
at a close ; 

Pleasure who flaunts on her wide down- 
way with her flying robe and 
her poison'd rose ; 

IX 

Pain, that has crawl'd from the corpse 
of Pleasure, a worm which 
writhes all day, and at night 

Stirs up again in the heart of the 
sleeper, and stings him back to 
the curse of the light ; 



Wealth with his wines and his wedded 

harlots ; honest Poverty, bare 

to the bone ; 
Opulent Avarice, lean as Poverty ; 

Flattery gilding the rift in a 

throne ; 

XI 

Fame blowing out from her golden 

trumpet a jubilant challenge to 

Time and to Fate ; 
Slander, her shadow, sowing the nettle 

on all the laurell'd graves of 

the great ; 



Love for the maiden, crown'd with 
marriage, no regrets for aught 
that has been, 

Household happiness, gracious chil- 
dren, debtless competence, gold- 



XIII 

National hatreds of whole generations, 
and pigmy spites of the village 
spire ; 

Vows that will last to the last death- 
ruckle, and vows that are snapt 
in a moment of fire ; 

XIV 

He that has lived for the lust of the 
minute, and died in the doing 
it, flesh without mind ; 

He that has nail'd all flesh to the 
Cross, till Self died out in the 
love of his kind ; 



Spring and Summer and Autumn and 
Winter, and all these old revo- 
lutions of earth ; 

All new-old revolutions of Empire — 
change of the tide — what is all 
of it worth ? 

XVI 

What the philosophies, all the sciences, 
poesy, varying voices of prayer, 

All that is noblest, all that is basest, 
all that is filthy with all that is 
fair? 



What is it all, if we all of us end but 

in being our own corpse-coffins 

at last ? 
Swallow'd in Vastness, lost in Silence, 

drown' d in the deeps of a mean- 

ingless Past ? 

XVIII 

What but a murmur of gnats in the 
gloom, or a moment's anger of 
bees in their hive ? — 

Peace, let it be ! for I loved him, and 
love him for ever : the dead 
are not dead but alive. 



THE RING 



669 




James Russell Lowell 



THE RING 
®ebicatet> to tht *£on. 3f # ttuften HotoeH 

MIRIAM AND HER FATHER 
miriam (singing). 

Mellow moon of heaven, 

Bright in blue, 
Moon of married hearts, 

Hear me, you ! 

Twelve times in the year 

Bring me bliss, 
Globing honey moons 

Bright as this. 



Moon, you fade at times 
From" the night. ic 

Young again you grow 
Out of sight. 

Silver crescent-curve, 

Coming soon, 
Globe again, and make 

Honey moon. 

Shall not my love last. 

Moon, with you, 
For ten thousand years 

Old and new ? 

FATHER. 

Aud who was lie with such love 
drunken eyes 



670 



DEMETER AND OTHER POEMS 



They made a thousand honey moons 

of one ? 

MIRIAM. 

The prophet of his own, my Hubert 

— his 
The words, and mine the setting. 

4 Air and words,' 
Said Hubert, when I sang the song, 

' are bride 
And bridegroom.' Does it please you ? 

FATHER. 

Mainly, child, 
Because I hear your mother's voice in 

yours. 
She — , why, you shiver tho' the wind 

is west 
With all the warmth of summer. 

MIRIAM. 

Well, I felt 
On a sudden I know not what, a 
breath that past 30 

With all the cold of winter. 

father {muttering to himself). 

Even so. 
The Ghost in Man, the Ghost that 

once was Man, 
But cannot wholly free itself from 

Man, 
Are calling to each other thro' a dawn 
Stranger than earth has ever seen; 

the veil 
Is rending, and the Voices of the 

day 
Are heard across the Voices of the 

dark. 
No sudden heaven, nor sudden hell, 

for man, 
But thro' the Will of One who knows 

and rules — 
And utter knowledge is but utter 

love — 40 

iEonian Evolution, swift or slow, 
Thro' all the spheres — an ever open- 
ing height, 
An ever lessening earth — and she 

perhaps, 
My Miriam, breaks her latest earthly 

link 
With me to-day. 

MIRIAM. 

You speak so low ; what is it ? 



Your 'Miriam breaks' — is making a 

new link 
Breaking an old one ? 

FATHER. 

No, for we, my child, 
Have been till now each other's all-in- 
all. 



And you the lifelong guardian of the 
child. 

FATHER. 

I, and one other whom you have not 
known. 50 

MIRIAM. 

And who ? what other ? 

FATHER. 

Whither are you bound ? 
For Naples which we only left in 
May? 

MIRIAM. 

No, father, Spain, but Hubert brings 

me home 
With April and the swallow. Wish 

me joy! 

FATHER. 

What need to wish when Hubert weds 

in you 
The heart of love, and you the soul 

of truth 
In Hubert ? 

MIRIAM. 

Tho' you used to call me once 
The lonely maiden princess of the 

wood, 
Who meant to sleep her hundred sum- 
mers out 
Before a kiss should wake her. 

FATHER. 

Ay, but now 

Your fairy prince has found you, take 

this ring. 61 

MIRIAM. 

'Io t' amo' — and these diamonds — 

beautiful ! 
'From Walter,' and for me from you 

then? 



THE RING 



671 



FATHER. 

Well, 
One way for Miriam. 

MIRIAM. 

Miriam am I not ? 

FATHER. 

This ring bequeath'd you by your 

mother, child, 
Was to be given you — such her dying 

wish — 
Given on the morning when you came 

of age 
Or on the day you married. Both the 

days 
Now close in one. The ring is doubly 

yours. 
Why do you look so gravely at the 

tower ? 70 

MIRIAM. 

I never saw it yet so all ablaze 

With creepers crimsoning to the pin- 
nacles, 

As if perpetual sunset linger'd there, 

And all ablaze too in the lake below ! 

And how the birds that circle round 
the tower 

Are cheeping to each other of their 
flight 

To summer lands ! 



And that has made you grave ? 
Fly — care not. Birds and brides must 

leave the nest. 78 

Child, I am happier in your happiness 
Than in mine own. 

MIRIAM. 

It is not that ! 



FATHER. 



What else ? 



MIRIAM. 

That chamber in the tower. 

FATHER. 

What chamber, child ? 
Your nurse is here ? 

MIRIAM. 

My mother's nurse and mine. 

She comes to dress me in my bridal 

veil. 83 



FATHER. 

What did she say ? 

MIRIAM. 

She said that you and I 
Had been abroad for my poor health 

so long 
She fear'd I had forgotten her, and I 

ask'd 
About my mother, and she said, ' Thy 

hair 
Is golden like thy mother's, not so 

fine.' 

FATHER. 

What then ? what more ? 

MIRIAM. 

She said — perhaps indeed 
She wander'd, having wander'd now 

so far 90 

Beyond the common date of death — 

that you, 
When I was smaller than the statuette 
Of my dear mother on your bracket 

here — 
You took me to that chamber in the 

tower, 
The topmost — a chest there, by which 

you knelt — 
And there were books and dresses — 

left to me, 
A ring too which you kiss'd, and I, 

she said, 
I babbled, 'Mother, mother' — as I 

used 
To prattle to her picture — stretch' d 

my hands 
As if I saw her ; then a woman 

came 100 

And caught me from my nurse. I 

hear her yet — 
A sound of anger like a distant storm. 

FATHER. 

Garrulous old crone ! 

MIRIAM. 

Poor nurse ! 

FATHER. 

I bade her keep, 

Like a seal'd book, all mention of the 

ring, 
For I myself would tell you all today. 



672 



DEMETER AND OTHER POEMS 



MIRIAM. 


MIRIAM. 


* She too might speak to-day,' she 


I climb' d the hill with Hubert, yester- 


mumbled. Still. 


day, 


I scarce have learnt the title of your 


And from the thousand squares, one 


book, 


silent voice 130 


But you will turn the pages. 


Came on the wind, and seem'd to say, 




1 Again. ' 


FATHER. 


We saw far off an old forsaken house, 


Ay. to-day! 


Then home, and past the ruin'd mill. 


I brought you to that chamber on 




your third 


FATHER. 


September birthday with your nurse, 


And there 


and felt no 


I found these cousins often by the 


An icy breath play on me, while I 


brook, 


stoopt 


For Miriam sketch'd and Muriel threw 


To take and kiss the ring. 


the fly ; 




The girls of equal age, but one was 


MIRIAM, 


fair, 


This very ring, 


And one was dark, and both were 


' Io t' amo ? ' 


beautiful. 




No voice for either spoke within my 


FATHER. 


heart 


Yes, for some wild hope was mine 


Then, for the surface eye, that only 


That, in the misery of my married 


dotes 


life, 


On outward beauty, glancing from the 


Miriam your mother might appear to 


one 140 


me. 


To the other, knew not that which 


She came to you, not me. The storm 


pleased it most, 


you hear 


The raven ringlet or the gold ; but 


Far-off is Muriel — your stepmother's 


both 


voice. 


Were dowerless, and myself, I used to 




walk 


MIRIAM. 


This terrace — morbid, melancholy; 


Vext, that you thought my mother 


mine 


came to me ? 


And yet not mine the hall, the farm, 


Or at my crying, ' Mother ' ? or to find 


the field ; 


My mother's diamonds hidden from 


For all that ample woodland whisper'd, 


her there, 120 


' Debt,' 


Like worldly beauties in the cell, not 


The brook that feeds this lakelet mur- 


shown 


rnur'd, 'Debt,' 


To dazzle all that see them ? 


And in yon arching avenue of old 




elms, 


FATHER. 


Tho' mine, not mine, I heard the sober 


Wait a while. 


rook 149 


Your mother and stepmother — Miriam 


And carrion crow cry, ' Mortgage.' 


Erne 




And Muriel Erne — the two were cou- 


MIRIAM. 


sins — lived 


Father's fault 


With Muriel's mother on the down, 


Visited on the children ! 


that sees 




A thousand squares of corn and mea- 


FATHER. 


dow, far 


Ay, but then 


As the gray deep, a landscape which 


A kinsman, dying, summon'd me to 


your eyes 


Rome — 


Have many a time ranged over when 


He left me wealth — and while I jour- 


a babe. 


ney'd hence, 



THE RING 



673 



And saw the world fly by me like a 

dream, 
And while I communed with my truest 

self, 
I woke to all of truest in myself, 
Till, in the gleam of those midsummer 

dawns, 
The form of Muriel faded, and the face 
Of Miriam grew upon me, till I knew ; 
And past and future mixt in heaven 

and made 160 

The rosy twilight of a perfect day. 

MIRIAM. 

So glad ? no tear for him who left you 

wealth, 
Your kinsman ? 

FATHER. 

I had seen the man but once ; 
He loved my name, not me ; and then 

I pass'd 
Home, and thro' Venice, where a jew- 
eller, 
So far gone down, or so far up in life, 
That he was nearing his own hundred, 

sold 
This ring to me, then laugh'd, 'The 

ring is weird.' 
And weird and worn and wizard-like 

was he. 
' Why weird ? ' I ask'd him ; and he 

said, ' The souls 170 

Of two repentant lovers guard the 

ring ; ' 
Then with a ribald twinkle in his bleak 

eyes — 
' And if you give the ring to any maid, 
They still remember what it cost them 

here, 
And bind the maid to love you by the 

ring ; 
And if the ring were stolen from the 

maid, 
The theft were death or madness to 

the thief, 
So sacred those ghost lovers hold the 

gift.' 
And then he told their legend : 

' Long ago 
Two lovers parted by a scurrilous 

tale 
Had quarrell'd, till the man repenting 

sent 181 

This ring, " Io t' amo," to his best be- 
loved, 



And sent it on her birthday. She in 

wrath 
Return'd it on her birthday, and that 

day 
His death-day, when, half-frenzied by 

the ring, 
He wildly fought a rival suitor, him 
The causer of that scandal, fought and 

fell; 
And she that came to part them all too 

late, 
And found a corpse and silence, drew 

the ring 
From his dead finger, wore it till her 

death, 190 

Shrined him within the temple of her 

heart, 
Made every moment of her after life 
A virgin victim to his memory, 
And dying rose, and rear'd her arms, 

and cried, 
" I see him, Io t' amo, Io t' amo." ' 

MIRIAM. 

Legend or true ? so tender should be 

true ! 
Did he believe it ? did you ask him ? 

FATHER. 

Ay! 
But that half skeleton, like a barren 

ghost 
From out the fleshless world of spirits, 

laugh'd — 
A hollow laughter ! 

MIRIAM. 

Vile, so near the ghost 

Himself, to laugh at love in death! 

But you ? 201 

FATHER. 

Well, as the bygone lover thro' this 
ring 

Had sent his cry for her forgiveness, I 

Would call thro' this ' Io t' amo ' to the 
heart 

Of Miriam ; then I bade the man en- 
grave 

'From Walter' on the ring, and sent it 
— wrote 

Name, surname, all as clear as noon, 
but he — 

Some younger hand must have engra- 
ven the ring — 

His fingers were so stiff en'd by the frost 



674 



DEMETER AND OTHER POEMS 



Of seven and ninety winters, that he 
scrawl' d 210 

A ' Miriam ' that might seem a ' Mu- 
riel ; ' 

And Muriel claim'd and open'd what I 
meant 

For Miriam, took the ring, and flaunted 
it 

Before that other whom I loved and 
love. 

A mountain stay'd me here, a min- 
ster there, 
A galleried palace, or a battle-field, 
Where stood the sheaf of Peace : but 

— coming home — 
And on your mother's birthday — all 

but yours — 
A week betwixt — and when the tower 

as now 
Was all ablaze with crimson to the 

roof, . 220 

And all ablaze too plunging in the lake 
Head-foremost — who were those that 

stood between 
The tower and that rich phantom of 

the tower ? 
Muriel and Miriam, each in white, and 

like 
May -blossoms in mid-autumn — was it 

they? 
A light shot upward on them from the 

lake. 
What sparkled there ? whose hand 

was that ? they stood 
So close together. I am not keen of 

sight, 
But coming nearer — Muriel had the 

ring — 
' O Miriam ! have you given your ring 

to her ? 230 

O Miriam ! ' Miriam redden'd, Muriel 

clench'd 
The hand that wore it, till I cried 

again : 
' O Miriam, if you love me take the 

ring ! ' 
She glanced at me, at Muriel, and was 

mute. 
'Nay, if you cannot love me, let it be.' 
Then — Muriel standing ever statue- 
like— 
She turn'd, and in her soft imperial 

way 
And saying gently, ' Muriel, by your 

leave,' 



Unclosed the hand and from it drew 

the ring, 
And gave it me, who pass'd it down 

her own, 240 

'lot' amo, all is well then.' Muriel 

fled. 

MIKIAM. 

Poor Muriel ! 

FATHER. 

Ay, poor Muriel, when you hear 

What follows ! Miriam loved me from 
the first, 

Not thro' the ring ; but on her mar- 
riage-morn 

This birthday, death-day, and be- 
trothal ring, 

Laid on her table overnight, was gone ; 

And after hours of search and doubt 
and threats, 

And hubbub, Muriel enter' d with it, 
'See! — 

Found in a chink of that old moul- 
der' d floor ! ' 

My Miriam nodded with a pitying 
smile, 250 

As who should say that ' those who 
lose can find.' 
Then I and she were married for a 
year, 

One year without a storm, or even a 
cloud ; 

And you, my Miriam, born within the 
year; 

And she, my Miriam, dead within the 
year. 
I sat beside her dying, and she 
gaspt: 

'The books, the miniature, the lace 
are hers, 

My ring too when she comes of age, 
or when 

She marries; you — you loved me, 
kept your word. 

You love me still, "Io t' amo." — 
Muriel — no — 260 

She cannot love ; she loves her own 
hard self, 

Her firm will, her fix'd purpose. Pro- 
mise me, 

Miriam, not Muriel — she shall have 
the ring.' 

And there the light of other life, which 
lives 

Beyond our burial and our buried eyes, 



THE RING 



675 



Gleam'd for a moment in her own on 

earth. 
I swore the vow, then with my latest 

kiss 
Upon them, closed her eyes, which 

would not close, 
But kept their watch upon the ring 

and you. 
Your birthday was her death-day. 

MIRIAM. 

O poor mother ! 

And you, poor desolate father, and 
poor me, 271 

The little senseless, worthless, word- 
less babe, 

Saved when your life was wreck' d ! 

FATHER. 

Desolate ? yes ! 

Desolate as that sailor whom the 
storm 

Had parted from his comrade in the 
boat, 

And dash'd half dead on barren sands, 
was I. 

Nay, you were my one solace; only 
— you 

Were always ailing. Muriel's mo- 
ther, sent, 

And sure am I, by Muriel, one day 
came 

And saw you, shook her head, and 
patted yours, 280 

And smiled, and making with a kindly 
pinch 

Each poor pale cheek a momentary 
rose — 

'Tttat should be fix'd,' she said ; ' your 
pretty bud, 

So blighted here, would flower into 
full health 

Among our heath and bracken. Let 
her come ! 

And we will feed her with our moun- 
tain air, 

And send her home to you rejoicing.' 
No — 

We could not part. And once, when 
you, my girl, 

Rode on my shoulder home — the tiny 
fist 

Had grasp t a daisy from your mo- 
ther's grave — 290 

By the lych-gate was Muriel. ' Ay,' 
she said, 



1 Among the tombs in this damp vale 

of yours ! 
You scorn my mother's warning, but 

the child 
Is paler than before. We often walk 
In open sun, and see beneath our 

feet 
The mist of autumn gather from your 

lake, 
And shroud the tower ; and once we 

only saw 
Your gilded vane, a light above the 

mist ' — 
Our old bright bird that still is veer- 
ing there 
Above his four gold letters — ' and the 

light,' 300 

She said, ' was like that light ' — and 

there she paused, 
And long ; till I, believing that the 

girl's 
Lean fancy, groping for it, could not 

find 
One likeness, laugh'd a little and found 

her two — 
1 A warrior's crest above the cloud of 

war' — 
' A fiery phoenix rising from the smoke, 
The pyre he burnt in.' — 'Nay,' she 

said, ' the light 
That glimmers on the marsh and on 

the grave.' 
And spoke no more, but turn'd and 

past away. 
Miriam, I am not surely one of those 
Caught by the flower that closes on 

the fly, 3" 

But after ten slow weeks her fix'd in- 
tent, 
In aiming at an all but hopeless mark 
To strike it, struck. I took, I left 

you there ; 
I came, I went, was happier day by 

day; 
For Muriel nursed you with a mo- 
ther's care ; 
Till on that clear and heather-scented 

height 
The rounder cheek had brighten'd into 

bloom. 
She always came to meet me carrying 

you, 
And all her talk was of the babe she 

loved ; 320 

So, following her old pastime of the 

brook, 



676 



DEMETER AND OTHER POEMS 



She threw the fly for me ; but oftener 
left 

That angling to the mother. ' Muri- 
el's health 

Had weaken'd, nursing little Miriam. 
Strange ! 

She used to shun the wailing babe, 
and dotes 

On this of yours.' But when the ma- 
tron saw 

That hinted love was only wasted 
bait, 

Not risen to, she was bolder. ' Ever 
since 

You sent the fatal ring ' — I told her 
'sent 

To Miriam,' ' Doubtless — ay, but ever 
since 330 

In all the world my dear one sees but 
you — 

In your sweet babe she finds but you 

— she makes 

Her heart a mirror that reflects but 

you.' 
And then the tear fell, the voice broke. 

Her heart ! 
I gazed into the mirror, as a man 
Who sees his face in water, and a 

stone, 
That glances from the bottom of the 

pool, 
Strike upward thro' the shadow ; yet 

at last, 
Gratitude — loneliness — desire to keep 
So skilled a nurse about you always 

— nay ! 340 
Some half remorseful kind of pity 

too — 

Well ! well, you know I married Mu- 
riel Erne. 
' I take thee Muriel for my wedded 
wife ' — 

I had forgotten it was your birthday, 
child — 

When all at once with some electric 
thrill 

A cold air pass'd between us, and the 
hands 

Fell from each other, and were join'd 
again. 
No second cloudless honeymoon was 
mine. 

For by and by she sicken' d of the 
farce, 

She dropt the gracious mask of mo- 
therhood, 350 



She came no more to meet me, carry- 
ing you. 
Nor ever cared to set you on her knee, 
Nor ever let you gambol in her sight, 
Nor ever cheer'd you with a kindly 

smile, 
Nor ever ceased to clamor for the 

ring ; 
Why had I sent the ring at first to 

her? 
Why had I made her love me thro' the 

ring, 
And then had changed ? so fickle are 

men — the best ! 
Not she — but now my love was hers 

again, 
The ring by right, she said, was hers 

again. 3 6o 

At times too shrilling in her angrier 

moods, 
'That weak and watery nature love 

you ? No ! 
" Io t' amo, Io t' amo" ! ' flung her- 
self 
Against my heart, but often while her 

lips 
Were warm upon my cheek, an icy 

breath, 
As from the grating of a sepulchre, 
Past over both. I told her of my vow, 
No pliable idiot I to break my vow ; 
But still she made her outcry for the 

ring; 
For one monotonous fancy madden'd 

her, 370 

Till I myself was madden'd with her 

cry, 
And even that 'Io t' amo,' those three 

sweet 
Italian words, became a weariness. 
My people too were scared with 

eerie sounds, 
A footstep, a low throbbing in the 

walls, 
A noise of falling weights that never 

fell, 
Weird whispers, bells that rang with- 
out a hand, 
Door-handles turn'd when none was 

at the door, 
And bolted doors that open'd of them- 
selves ; 
And one betwixt the dark and light 

had seen 380 

Her, bending by the cradle of her 

babe. 



THE RING 



:-- 



A: 1 I rrzirii: -: : 11 " v ~7 _ "" 77 — -iv :1 



I cried for nurse, and felt a gentle 

hand 
Fall on my forehead, and a sudden 

: :-, : v 

L:-7 i ii mi 7 7v 77- \ 777 7.1 

A: . - — 7 iiiif.ri 77 . -.zz~ 777 

7 a 7 77 7 

Toot fifth September birthday. 



WKTAH 



7: '. 17 77 1 
The hand. — my mother. 

FATHKR. 

Mtriain. on that day 
Two lovers parted by no scurrilous 

7l7— * * ::: 

Mere want of gold — and still for 

twenty years 
Bound by the gulden cord of their 

- - love- 
Had ask'd ns to their marriage, and 

:■: >77 
Their marriage-banquet. MurieL paler 

then 
Than ever you were in your cradle. 

moand. 
I am fitter for my bed, or for my 

- 
I cannot go. go yon/ And then she 

She clung to me with such a hard em- 

7 ;i::r::L:'.T '77 77: "_;/.:' -77777 
I parted from her. and I went alone. 
And when the bridegroom murmur <L 

With this ri _ 
I felt for what I could not find, the 

I key -acred amulet 

A" 777 — j7.iv ..7. :if in 7.7 
BMiliiaif! ' 

.71 1.777 -_ 1.77v I 777 77 
1 717 7v 

_ lrden — up the tower — an icy 
air 
Fkd by me, — There, the chest was 

open — all 



UCOr — 4! 

-7777 -_ T _ 7777I l-ln- 7 _r 

i . :- — 
I raised her, calTd her, Murie 

The fatal ring lay near her; the glaze 

Glared at me as in horror. Dead ! 

A:: ;~777 ~_- i:v-;ti_- 77" a. :- 

71177 77 

All 7 717 1 7:777 17:^ 71777 7 
7- 771 

■'• v7 :r;7:lr: 7 — 1:1- _77 - 

17 1 77~: v 777 

"_v ring — 
777 17 7:7 71 7: 777: :r ,1 

7 — 
For never had I seen her show re 

7 77 _: 

:- 

777:1 

— 771 -~: 77 1.777 — 



- ± I 777. 






WIMMAM 



7 a 7ZZ 7. 
- V '7 171; _ . 

That now their ever-rising life has 
Iwarf 1 

•It 1:7 7v 777 :: 77: 77- 7 
earth. 

- 

MEBT \M. 

—a inra gjhm had — 



'd i: away 



MIRIAM. 

Had floated in with sad reproachful 

Till from her own hand she had torn 

the ring 
In fright, and fallen dead. And I 

myself 
Am half afraid to wear it. 



678 



DEMETER AND OTHER POEMS 



FATHER. 

Well, no more ! 
No bridal music this ! but fear not 

you ! 431 

You have the ring she guarded ; that 

poor link 
With earth is broken, and has left her 

free, 
Except that, still drawn downward 

for an hour, 
Her spirit hovering by the church, 

where she 
Was married too, may linger, till she 

sees 
Her maiden coming like a queen, who 

leaves 
Some colder province in the North to 

gain 
Her capital city, where the loyal bells 
Clash welcome — linger, till her own, 

the babe 440 

She lean'd to from her spiritual sphere, 
Her lonely maiden princess, crowned 

with flowers, 
Has enter'd on the larger woman-world 
Of wives and mothers. 

But the bridal veil — 
Your nurse is waiting. Kiss me, 

child, and go. 



FORLORN 



1 He is fled — I wish him dead — 
He that wrought my ruin — 

O, the flattery and the craft 
Which were my undoing — 
In the night, in the night, 
When the storms are blowing. 



'Who was witness of the crime ? 
Who shall now reveal it ? 

He is fled, or he is dead, 
Marriage will conceal it — 
In the night, in the night, 
While the gloom is growing. ' 

in 

Catherine, Catherine, in the night. 
What is this you 're dreaming V 

There is laughter down in hell 
At your simple scheming — 
In the night, in the night, 
When the ghosts are fleeting. 



You to place a hand in his 
Like an honest woman's, 

You that lie with wasted lungs 
Waiting for your summons — 
In the night, O, the night ! 
O, the death watch beating ! 



There will come a witness soon 
Hard to be confuted, 

All the world will hear a voice 
Scream you are polluted — 
In the night ! O, the night, 
When the owls are wailing ! 30 

VI 

Shame and marriage, shame and mar- 
riage, 

Fright and foul dissembling, 
Bantering bridesman, reddening priest, 

Tower and altar trembling — 

In the night, O, the night, 

When the mind is failing \ 

VII 

Mother, dare you kill your child ? 
How your hand is shaking I 

Daughter of the seed of Cain, 

What is this you 're taking ? — 40 
In the night, O, the night, 
While the house is sleeping. 

VIII 

Dreadful ! has it come to this, 

O unhappy creature ? 
You that would not tread on a worm 

For your gentle nature — 

In the night, O, the night, 

O, the night of weeping ! 



Murder would not veil your sin, 

. Marriage will not hide it, 50 

Earth and Hell will brand your name, 

Wretch, you must abide it — 

In the night, O, tin 1 night, 

Long before the dawning. 



Up, get up, and tell him all, 

Tell him you were lying ! 
Do not die with a lie in your mouth. 

You that know you 're dying — 

In the night, O, the night, 

While the grave is yawning. 60 



D 7 9 



No — you will not die before, 
Tho' you '11 ne'er be stronger ; 

You will live till that is born, 
Then a little longer — 
In the night, O, the night, 
While the Fiend is prowling. 

XII 

Death and marriage, death and mar- 
riage ! 
Funeral hearses rolling ! 

Black with bridal favors mixt ! 

Bridal bells with tolling ! — 70 

In the night, O, the night, 
When the wolves are howling. 



Up, get up, the time is short, 

Tell him now or never ! 
Tell him all before you die, 

Lest you die for ever — 

In the night, O, the night, 

Where there's no forgetting : 

XIV 

Up she got, and wrote him all, 
All her tale of sadness, 80 

Blister'd every word with tears, 
And eased her heart of madness — 
In the night, and nigh the dawn, 
And while the moon was setting. 

HAPPY 

THE LEPER'S BRIDE 



Why wail you, pretty plover ? and 
what is it that you fear ? 
Is he sick, your mate, like mine ? 
have you lost him, is he fled ? 
And there — the heron rises from his 
watch beside the mere, 
And flies above the leper's hut, 
where lives the living-dead. 

11 
Come back, nor let me know it ! would 
he live and die alone ? 
And has he not forgiven me yet, his 
over- jealous bride, 
Who am, and was, and will be his, 
his own and only own, 
To share his living death with him, 
die with him side by side ? 



in 



Is that the leper's hut on the solitary 
moor, 
Where noble Ulric dwells forlorn, 
and wears the leper's weed ? 10 
The door is open. He ! is he standing 
at the door, 
My soldier of the Cross? it is he, 
and he indeed ! 



My roses — will he take them now — 
mine, his — from off the tree 
We planted both together, happy in 
our marriage morn ? 
O God, I could blaspheme, for he 
fought Thy fight for Thee, 
And Thou hast made him leper to 
compass him with scorn — 



Hast spared the flesh of thousands, the 
coward and the base, 
And set a crueller mark than Cain's 
on him, the good and brave ! 
He sees me, waves me from him. I 
will front him face to face. 
You need not wave me from you. 
I would leap into your grave. 20 

VI 

My warrior of the Holy Cross and of 
the conquering sword, 
The roses that you cast aside — once 
more I bring you these. 
No nearer ? do you scorn me when 
you tell me, O my lord, 
You would not mar the beauty of 
your bride with your disease? 



You say your body is so foul — then 
here I stand apart, 
Who yearn to lay my loving head 
upon your leprous breast. 
The leper plague may scale my skin, 
but never taint my heart ; 
Your body is not foul to me, and 
body is foul at best. 



I loved you first when young and fair, 
but now I love you most ; 
The fairest flesh at last is filth on 
which the worm will feast ; 30 



68o 



DEMETER AND OTHER POEMS 



This poor rib-grated dungeon of the 
holy human ghost, 
This house with all its hateful needs 
no cleaner than the beast, 

IX 

This coarse diseaseful creature which 
in Eden was divine, 
This Satan-haunted ruin, this little 
city of sewers, 
This wall of solid flesh that comes be- 
tween your soul and mine, 
Will vanish and give place to the 
beauty that endures, 



The beauty that endures on the Spirit- 
ual height, 
When we shall stand transfigured, 
like Christ on Hermon hill, 
And moving each to music, soul in 
soul and light in light, 
Shall flash thro' one another in a 
moment as we will. 4 o 



Foul ! foul ! the word was yours not 

mine, I worship that right hand 

Which fell'd the foes before you as 

the woodman fells the wood, 

And sway'd the sword that lighten'd 

back the sun of Holy Land, 

And clove the Moslem crescent 

moon, and changed it into blood. 

XII 

And once I worshipt all too well this 
creature of decay, 
For age will chink the face, and 
death will freeze the supplest 
limbs — 
Yet you in your mid manhood — O, 
the grief when yesterday 
They bore the Cross before you to 
the chant of funeral hymns ! 

XIII 

' Libera me, Domine ! ' you sang the 
Psalm, and when 
The priest pronounced you dead, 
and flung the mould upon your 
feet, 50 

A beauty came upon your face, not 
that of living men, 
But seen upon the silent brow when 
life has ceased to beat. 



xiv 

1 Libera nos, Domine ' — you knew not 
one was there 
Who saw you kneel beside your 
bier, and weeping scarce could 
see ; 
May I come a little nearer, I that 
heard, and changed the prayer 
And sang the married ' nos ' for the 
solitary 'me'? 

xv 

My beauty marred by you ? by you ! 
so be it. All is well 
If I lose it and myself in the higher 
beauty, yours. 
My beauty lured that falcon from his 
eyry on the fell, 
Who never caught one gleam of the 
beauty which endures — 60 



The Count who sought to snap the 
bond that link'd us life to life, 
Who whisper'd me, 'Your Ulric 
loves ' — a little nearer still — 
He hiss'd, ' Let us revenge ourselves, 
your Ulric woos my wife ' — 
A lie by which he thought he could 
subdue me to his will. 



I knew that you were near me when 
I let him kiss my brow ; 
Did he touch me on the lips ? I was 
jealous, anger'd, vain, 
And I meant to make you j ealous. Are 
you jealous of me now ? 
Your pardon, O my love, if I ever 
gave you pain ! 

XVIII 

You never once accused me, but I 
wept alone, and sigh'd 
In the winter of the present for the 
summer of the past ; 70 

That icy winter silence — how it froze 
you from your bride, 
Tho' I made one barren effort to 
break it at the last ! 



I brought you, you remember, these 
roses, when I knew 
You were parting for the war, and 
you took them tho' you frown'd; 






HAPPY 



68 1 



You frown'd and yet you kiss'd them. 
All at once the trumpet blew, 
And you spurr'd your fiery horse, 
and you hurl'd them to the 
ground. 



You parted for the Holy War without 
a word to me, 
And clear myself unask'd — not I. 
My nature was too proud. 
And him I saw but once again, and 
far away was he, 
When I was praying in a storm — 
the crash was long and loud — 

xxr 

That God would ever slant His bolt 
from falling on your head — 81 
Then I lifted up my eyes, he was 
coming down the fell — 
I clapt my hands. The sudden fire 
from heaven had dash'd him 
dead, 
And sent him charr'd and blasted to 
the deathless fire of hell. 



XXII 



I re- 



See, I sinn'd but for a moment, 
pented and repent, 
And trust myself forgiven by the 
God to whom I kneel. 
A little nearer ? Yes. I shall hardly 
be content 
Till I be leper like yourself, my 
love, from head to heel. 

XXIII 

O foolish dreams, that you, that I, 

would slight our marriage oath ! 

I held you at that moment even 

dearer than before ; 90 

Now God has made you leper in His 

loving care for both, 

That we might cling together, never 

doubt each other more. 



The priest, who join'd you to the 
dead, has join'd our hands of 
old; 
If man and wife be but one flesh, 
let mine be leprous too, 



As dead from all the human race as if 
beneath the mould ; 
If you be dead, then I am dead, 
who only live for you. 



Would Earth tho' hid in cloud not be 
f ollow'd by the Moon ? 
The leech forsake the dying bed for 
terror of his life ? 
The shadow leave the Substance in 
the brooding light of noon ? 
Or if i" had been the leper would 
you have left the wife ? 100 



Not take them? Still you wave me 

off — poor roses — must I go — 

I have worn them year by year — 

from the bush we both had 

set — 

What ? fling them to you ? — well — 

that were hardly gracious. No ! 

Your plague but passes by the 

touch. A little nearer yet ! 



There, there ! he buried you, the 
priest ; the priest is not to 
blame, 
He joins us once again, to his either 
office true. 
I thank him. I am happy, happy. 
Kiss me. In the name 
Of the everlasting God, I will live 
and die with you ! 

[Dean Milman has remarked that the pro- 
tection and care afforded by the Church to 
this blighted race of lepers was among the 
most beautiful of its offices during the Mid- 
dle Ages. The leprosy of the thirteenth 
and fourteenth centuries was supposed to 
be a legacy of the Crusades, but was in all 
probability the offspring of meagre and un- 
wholesome diet, miserable lodging and 
clothing, physical and moral degradation. 
The services'of the Church in the seclusion 
of these unhappy sufferers were most af- 
fecting. The stern duty of looking to the 
public welfare is tempered with exquisite 
compassion for the victims of this loath- 
some disease. The ritual for the sequestra- 
tion of the leprous differed little from the 
burial service. After the leper had been 
sprinkled with holy water, the priest con- 



682 



DEMETER AND OTHER POEMS 



ducted him into the church, the leper sing- 
ing the psalm 'Libera me, Domine,' and 
the crucifix and bearer going before. In 
the church a black cloth was stretched over 
two trestles in front of the altar, and the 
leper leaning at its side devoutly heard 
mass. The priest, taking up a little earth 
in his cloak, threw it on one of the leper's 
feet, and put him out of the church, if it 
did not rain too heavily ; took him to his 
hut in the midst of the fields, and then ut- 
tered the prohibitions: 'I forbid you enter- 
ing the church ... or entering the company 
of others. I forbid you quitting your home 
without your leper's dress.' He concluded : 
'Take this dress, and wear it in token 
of humility ; take these gloves, take this 
clapper, as a sign that you are forbidden 
to speak to any one. You are not to be 
indignant at being thus separated from 
others, and as to your little wants, good 
people will provide for you, and God will 
not desert you.' Then' in this old ritual 
follow these sad words : 'When it shall 
come to pass that the leper shall pass out of 
this world, he shall be buried in his hut, 
and not in the churchyard.' At first there 
was a doubt whether wives should follow 
their husbands who had been leprous, or 
remain in the world and marry again. The 
Church decided that the marriage-tie was 
indissoluble, and so bestowed on these un- 
happy beings this immense source of conso- 
lation. With a love stronger than this 
living death, lepers were followed into ban- 
ishment from the haunts of men by their 
faithful wives. Readers of Sir J. Stephen's 
' Essays on Ecclesiastical Biography ' will 
recollect the description of the founder of 
the Franciscan order, how, controlling his 
involuntary disgust, Saint Francis of Assisi 
washed the feet and dressed the sores of the 
lepers, once at least reverently applying 
his lips to their wounds. — Bourchier- 
James.] 

This ceremony of quasi-buri&l varied con- 
siderably at different times and in different 
places. In some cases a grave was dug, 
and the leper's face was often covered dur- 
ing the service. 



TO ULYSSES 



Ulysses, much-experienced man, 
Whose eyes have known this globe 

of ours, 
Her tribes of men, and trees, and 
flowers, 
From Corrientes to Japan, 



ii 



To you that bask below the Line, 
I soaking here in winter wet — 
The century's three strong eights 
have met 

To drag me down to seventy-nine 



in 



In summer if I reach my day — 
To you, yet young, who breathe the 

balm 
Of summer- winters by the palm 

And orange grove of Paraguay, 



I, tolerant of the colder time, 
Who love the winter woods, to trace 
On paler heavens the branching 
grace 

Of leafless elm, or naked lime, 



And see my cedar green, and there 
My giant ilex keeping leaf 
When frost is keen and days are 
brief — 

Or marvel how in English air 



My yucca, which no winter quells, 
Altho' the months have scarce be- 
gun, 
Has push'd toward our faintest sun 

A spike of half -accomplish' d bells — 



Or watch the waving pine which here 
The warrior of Caprera set, 2 
A name that earth will not forget 

Till earth has roll'd her latest year — 



I, once half-crazed for larger light 
On broader zones beyond the foam, 
But chaining fancy now at home 

Among the quarried downs of Wight, 

IX 

Not less would yield full thanks to you 
For your rich gift, your tale of lands 
I know not, 2 your Arabian sands ; 

Your cane, your palm, tree-fern, bam- 
boo, 

1 Garibaldi said to me, alluding to his 
barren island, ' I wish I had vour trees.' 

2 The tale of Nejd. 



TO MARY BOYLE 



683 



The wealth of tropic bower and brake ; 
Your Oriental Eden-isles, 1 
Where man, nor only Nature smiles ; 

Your wonder of the boiling lake ; 2 



Phra-Chai, the Shadow of the Best, 3 
Phra-bat 4 the step ; your Pontic 

coast ; 
Crag-cloister ; 5 Anatolian Ghost ; 6 
Hong-Kong, 7 Karnac, 8 and all the 
rest ; 



Thro' which I follow'd line by line 
Your leading hand, and came, my 

friend, 
To prize your various book, and 
send 
A gift of slenderer value, mine. 



TO MARY BOYLE 



WITH THE FOLLOWING POEM 



' Spring-flowers ' ! While you still 
delay to take 
Your leave of town, 
Our elm-tree's ruddy-hearted blossom- 
flake 

Is fluttering down. 

11 

Be truer to your promise. There ! I 
heard 

Our cuckoo call. 
Be needle to the magnet of your word, 

Nor wait, till all 

1 The Philippines. 2 In Dominica. 

3 The Shadow of the Lord. Certain ob- 
scure markings on a rock in Siam, which 
express the image of Buddha to the Bud- 
dhist more or less distinctly according to 
his faith and his moral worth. 

4 The footstep of the Lord on another 
rock. 

6 The monastery of Sumelas. 

6 Anatolian spectre stories. 

7 The three cities. 

8 Travels in Egypt. 



HI 
Our vernal bloom from every vale and 
plain 
And garden pass, 
And all the gold from each laburnum 
chain 
Drop to the grass. 



Is memory with your Marian gone to 
rest, 
Dead with the dead ? 
For ere she left us, when we met, you 
prest 
My hand, and said 



'I come with your spring-flowers/ 
You came not, friend ; 
My birds would sing, 
You heard not. Take then this spring- 
flower I send, 

This song of spring, 



Found yesterday — forgotten mine 
own rhyme 

By mine old self, 
As I shall be forgotten by old Time, 
Laid on the shelf — 



A rhyme that flower' d betwixt the 
whitening sloe 

And kingcup blaze, 
And more than half a hundred years 
ago, 
In rick-fire days, 



When Dives loathed the times, and 
paced his land 
In fear of worse, 
And sanguine Lazarus felt a vacant 
hand 
Fill with Ms purse. 



For lowly minds were madden' d to the 
height 
By tonguester tricks, 
And once — I well remember that red 
night 

When thirty ricks, 



68 4 



DEMETER AND OTHER POEMS 



All flaming, made an English home- 
stead hell — 
These hands of mine 
Have helpt to pass a bucket from the 
well 
Along the line, 



When this bare dome had not begun 
to gleam 

Thro' youthful curls, 
And you were then a lover's fairy 
dream, 

His girl of girls ; 

XII 

And you, that now are lonely, and 
with Grief 

Sit face to face, 
Might find a flickering glimmer of re- 
lief 

In change of place. 



What use to brood ? This life of min- 
gled pains 
And joys to me, 
Despite of every Faith and Creed, re- 
mains 

The Mystery. 



Let golden youth bewail the friend, 
the wife, 
For ever gone. 
He dreams of that long walk thro' de- 
sert life 
Without the one. 



The silver year should cease to mourn 
and sigh — 

Not long to wait — 
So close are we, dear Mary, you and I, 

To that dim gate. 



Take, read ! and be the faults your 
Poet makes 

Or many or few, 
He rests content, if his young music 
wakes 
A wish in you 



XVII 

To change our dark Queen-city, all her 
realm 

Of sound and smoke, 
For his clear heaven, and these few 
lanes of elm 
And whispering oak. 



THE PROGRESS OF SPRING 



The ground-flame of the crocus breaks 
the mould, 
Fair Spring slides hither o'er the 
Southern sea, 
Wavers on her thin stem the snowdrop 
cold 

That trembles not to kisses of the 
bee. 
Come, Spring, for now from all the 
dripping eaves 
The spear of ice has wept itself 
away, 
And hour by hour unfolding woodbine 
leaves 
O'er his uncertain shadow droops 
the day. 
She comes ! The loosen'd rivulets 
run ; 
The frost-bead melts upon her golden 
hair ; 10 

Her mantle, slowly greening in the 
Sun, 
Now wraps her close, now arching 

leaves her bare 
To breaths of balmier air ; 



Up leaps the lark, gone wild to wel- 
come her, 
About her glance the tits, and shriek 
the jays, 
Before her skims the jubilant wood- 
pecker, 
The linnet's bosom blushes at her 
gaze, 
While round her brows a woodland 
culver flits, 
Watching her large light eyes and 
gracious looks, 
And in her open palm a halcyon 
sits 20 

Patient — the secret splendor of the 
brooks. 



THE PROGRESS OF SPRING 



685 



Come, Spring! She comes on waste 
and wood, 
On farm and field ; but enter also 
here, 
Diffuse thyself at will thro' all my 
blood, 
And, tho' thy violet sicken into sere, 
Lodge with me all the year ! 

in 
Once more a downy drift against the 
brakes, 
Self -darken' d in the sky, descending 
slow ! 
But gladly see I thro' the wavering 
flakes 
Yon blanching apricot like snow in 
snow. 30 

These will thine eyes not brook in 
forest-paths, 
On their perpetual pine, nor round 
the beech ; 



They fuse themselves to little spicy 
baths, 
Solved in the tender blushes of the 
peach ; 
They lose themselves and die 

On that new life that gems the 
hawthorn line ; 
Thy gay lent-lilies wave and put them 

by, 

And out once more in varnish'd 

glory shine 
Thy stars of celandine. 

IV 

She floats across the hamlet. Heaven 
lours, 40 

But in the tearful splendor of her 
smiles 
I see the slowly-thickening chestnut 
towers 
Fill out the spaces by the barren 
tiles. 




' She comes on waste and wood, 
On farm and field ' 



686 



DEMETER AND OTHER POEMS 



Now past her feet the swallow circling 
flies, 
A clamorous cuckoo stoops to meet 
her hand ; 
Her light makes rainbows in my clos- 
ing eyes, 
I hear a charm of song thro' all the 
land. 
Come, Spring ! She comes, and Earth 
is glad 
To roll her North below thy deep- 
ening dome, 
But ere thy maiden birk be wholly 
clad, 50 

And these low bushes dip their 

twigs in foam, 
Make all true hearths thy home. 



Across my garden ! and the thicket 
stirs, 
The fountain pulses high in sunnier 
jets, 
The blackcap warbles, and the turtle 
purrs, 
The starling claps his tiny casta- 
nets. 
Still round her forehead wheels the 
woodland dove, 
And scatters on her throat the sparks 
of dew, 
The kingcup fills her footprint, and 
above 
Broaden the glowing isles of vernal 
blue. 60 

Hail, ample presence of a Queen, 

Bountiful, beautiful, apparell'd gay, 
Whose mantle, every shade of glan- 
cing green, 
Flies back in fragrant breezes to 

display 
A tunic white as May ! 



She whispers, ' From the South I bring 
you balm, 
For on a tropic mountain was I 
born, 
While some dark dweller by the coco- 
palm 
Watch' d my far meadow zoned with 
airy morn ; 
From under rose a muffled moan of 
floods ; 70 

I sat beneath a solitude of snow ; 



There no one came, the turf was 
fresh, the woods 
Plunged gulf on gulf thro' all their 
vales below. 
I saw beyond their silent tops 

The steaming marshes of the scarlet 
cranes, 
The slant seas leaning on the man- 
grove copse, 
* And summer basking in the sultry 
plains 
About a land of canes. 

VII 

'Then from my vapor-girdle soaring 
forth 
I scaled the buoyant highway of 
the birds, 80 

And drank the dews and drizzle of 
the North, 
That I might mix with men, and 
hear their words 
On path way 'd plains; for — while my 
hand exults 
Within the bloodless heart of lowly 
flowers 
To work old laws of Love to fresh 
results. 
Thro' manifold effect of simple 
powers — 
I too would teach the man 
Beyond the darker hour to see the 
bright, 
That his fresh life may close as it be- 
gan, 89 
The still-fulfilling promise of a light 
Narrowing the bounds of night/ 

VIII 

So wed thee with my soul, that I may 
mark 
The coming year's great good and 
varied ills, 
And new developments, whatever 
spark 
Be struck from out the clash of 
warring wills ; 
Or whether, since our nature cannot 
rest, 
The smoke of war's volcano burst 
again 
From hoary deeps that belt the change- 
ful West, 
Old Empires, dwellings of the kings 
of men ; 100 




MERLIN AND THE GLEAM 



687 



Or should those fail that hold the 
helm, 
While the long day of knowledge 
grows and warms, 
And in the heart of this most ancient 
realm 
A hateful voice be utter'd, and 

alarms 
Sounding ' To arms ! to arms ! ' 

IX 

A simpler, saner lesson might he learn 
Who reads thy gradual process, 
Holy Spring. 
Thy leaves possess the season in their 
turn, 
And in their time thy warblers rise 
on wing. 
How surely glidest thou from March 
to May, no 

And changest, breathing it, the sul- 
len wind, 
Thy scope of operation, day by day, 
Larger and fuller, like the human 
mind! 
Thy warmths from bud to bud 

Accomplish that blind model in the 
seed, 
And men have hopes, which race the 
restless blood, 
That after many changes may suc- 
ceed 
Life which is Life indeed. 



MERLIN AND THE GLEAM 



young Mariner, 
You from the haven 
Under the sea-cliff, 
You that are watching 
The gray Magician 
With eyes of wonder, 
Jam Merlin, 

And / am dying, 

1 am Merlin 

Who follow the Gleam. 



Mighty the Wizard 
Who found me at sunrise 
Sleeping, and woke me 
And learn'd me Magic ! 



Great the Master, 
And sweet the Magic, 
When over the valley, 
In early summers, 
Over the mountain, 
On human faces, 
And all around me, 
Moving to melody, 
Floated the Gleam. 



Once at the croak of a Raven who 
crost it, 
A barbarous people, 
Blind to the magic 
And deaf to the melody, 
Snarl'd at and cursed me. 
A demon vext me, 
The light retreated, 
The landskip darken'd, 
The melody deaden'd, 
The Master whisper'd, 
'Follow the Gleam/ 



Then to the melody, 

Over a wilderness 

Gliding, and glancing at 

Elf of the woodland, 

Gnome of the cavern, 

Griffin and Giant, 

And dancing of Fairies 

In desolate hollows, 

And wraiths of the mountain, 

And rolling of dragons 

By warble of water, 

Or cataract music 

Of falling torrents, 

Flitted the Gleam. 



Down from the mountain 

And over the level, 

And streaming and shining on 

Silent river, 

Silvery willow, 

Pasture and plowland, 

Innocent maidens, 

Garrulous children, 

Homestead and harvest, 

Reaper and gleaner, 

And rough-ruddy faces 

Of lowly labor, 

Slided the Gleam — 



688 



DEMETER AND OTHER POEMS 



VI 


And can no longer, 


Then, with a melody 


But die rejoicing, 


Stronger and statelier, 


For thro' the Magic 


Led me at length 


Of Him the Mighty, 


To the city and palace 


Who taught me in childhood, 


Of Arthur the King ; 


There on the border 


Touch'd at the golden 


Of boundless Ocean, 


Cross of the churches, 


And all but in Heaven 


Flash' d on the tournament, 


Hovers the Gleam. 


Flicker' d and bicker'd 




From helmet to helmet, 


IX 


And last on the forehead 


Not of the sunlight, 


Of Arthur the blameless 


Not of the moonlight, 


Rested the Gleam. 


Not of the starlight ! 




young Mariner, 


VII 


Down to the haven, 


Clouds and darkness 


Call your companions, 


Closed upon Camelot ; 


Launch your vessel 


Arthur had vanish'd 


And crowd your canvas, 


I knew not whither, 


And, ere it vanishes 


The king who loved me, 


Over the margin, 


And cannot die ; 


After it, follow it, 


For out of the darkness 


Follow the Gleam. 


Silent and slowly 




The Gleam, that had waned to a win- 




try glimmer 


ROMNEY'S REMORSE 


On icy fallow 




And faded forest, 


'Beat, little heart — I give you this 


Drew to the valley 


and this/ 


Named of the shadow, 


Who are you ? What ! the Lady 


And slowly brightening 


Hamilton ? 


Out of the glimmer, 


Good, I am never weary painting 


And slowly moving again to a melody 


you. 


Yearningly tender, 


To sit once more ? Cassandra, Hebe, 


Fell on the shadow, 


Joan, 


No longer a shadow, 


Or spinning at your wheel beside the 


But clothed with the Gleam. 


vine — 




Bacchante, what you will ; and if I 


VIII 


fail 


And broader and brighter 


To conjure and concentrate into form 


The Gleam flying onward, 


And color all you are, the fault is 


Wed to the melody, 


less 


Sang thro' the world ; 


In me than Art. What artist ever 


And slower and fainter, 


yet 


Old and weary, 


Could make pure light live on the 


But eager to follow, 


canvas ? Art ! 10 


I saw, whenever 


Why should I so disrelish that short 


In passing it glanced upon 


word? 


Hamlet or city, 


Where am I ? snow on all the hills ! 


That under the Crosses 


so hot, 


The dead man's garden, 


So fever'd ! never colt would more 


The mortal hillock, 


delight 


Would break into blossom • 


To roll himself in meadow grass 


And so to the land's 


than I 


Last limit I came — 


To wallow in that winter of the hills. 



ROMNEY'S REMORSE 



689 






Nurse, were you hired ? or came of 

your own will 
To wait on one so broken, so forlorn ? 
Have I not met you somewhere long 

ago ? 
I am all but sure I have — in Kendal 

church — 
O, yes ! I hired you for a season there, 
And then we parted ; but you look so 

kind 21 

That you will not deny my sultry 

throat 
One draught of icy water. There — 

you spill 
The drops upon my forehead. Your 

hand shakes. 
I am ashamed. I am a trouble to you, 
Could kneel for your forgiveness. 

Are they tears ? 
For me — they do me too much grace 

■ — for me ? 
O Mary, Mary ! 

Vexing you with words ! 
Words only, born of fever, or the 

fumes 
Of that dark opiate dose you gave me, 

— words, 30 

Wild babble. I have stumbled back 

again 
Into the common day, the sounder self. 
God stay me there, if only for your 

sake, 
The truest, kindliest, noblest-hearted 

wife 
That ever wore a Christian marriage- 
ring. 
My curse upon the Master's apo- 
thegm, 
That wife and children drag an artist 

down ! 
This seem'd my lodestar in the heaven 

of Art, 
And lured me from the household fire 

on earth. 
To you my days have been a lifelong 

lie, 40 

Grafted on half a truth ; and tho' you 

say, 
'Take comfort you have won the 

painter's fame,' 
The best in me that sees the worst in 

me, 
And groans to see it, finds no comfort 

there. 
What fame ? I am not Raphael, 

Titian, — no, 



Nor even a Sir Joshua, some will cry. 
Wrong there ! The painter's fame ? 

but mine, that grew 
Blown into glittering by the popular 

breath, 
May float awhile beneath the sun, 

may roll 
The rainbow hues of heaven about it — 

There ! 
The color'd bubble bursts above the 

abyss 5I 

Of Darkness, utter Lethe. 

Is it so ? 
Her sad eyes plead for my own fame 

with me 
To make it dearer. 

Look, the sun has risen 
To flame along another dreary day. 
Your hand. How bright you keep 

your marriage-ring ! 
Raise me. I thank you. 

Has your opiate then 

Bred this black mood ? or am I con- 
scious, more 

Than other Masters, of the chasm be- 
tween 

Work and Ideal ? Or does the gloom 
of age 6a 

And suffering cloud the height I stand 
upon 

Even from myself ? stand ? stood — 
no more. 

And yet 

The world would lose, if such a wife 
as you 

Should vanish unrecorded. Might I 
crave 

One favor ? I am bankrupt of all 
claim 

On your obedience, and my strongest 
wish 

Falls flat before your least unwilling- 
ness. 

Still, would you — if it please you — 
sit to me ? 
I dream'd last night of that clear 
summer noon, 

When seated on a rock, and foot to 

foot 70 

With your own shadow in the placid 

lake, 
You claspt our infant daughter, heart 

to heart. 



690 



DEMETER AND OTHER POEMS 



I had been among the hills, and 

brought you down 
A length of staghorn-moss, and this 

you twined 
About her cap. I see the picture 

yet, 

Mother and child. A sound from far 
away, 

No louder than a bee among the 
flowers, 

A fall of water lull'd the noon asleep. 

You still' d it for the moment with a 
song 

Which often echo'd in me, while I 
stood 80 

Before the great Madonna-master- 
pieces 

Of ancient Art in Paris, or in Rome. 

Mary, my crayons ! if I can, I 

will. 
Tou should have been — I might have 

made you once, 
Had I but known you as I know you 

now — 
The true Alcestis of the time. Your 

song — 
Sit, listen ! I remember it, a proof 
That I — even I — at times remember' d 

you. 

4 Beat upon mine, little heart ! beat, beat! 
Beat upon mine ! you are mine, my sweet ! 
All mine from your pretty blue eyes to your 
feet, 91 

My sweet.' 

Less profile ! turn to me — three-quar- 
ter face. 

* Sleep, little blossom, my honey, my bliss ! 
For I give you this, and I give you this ! 
And I blind your pretty blue eyes with a 

kiss! 

Sleep!' 

Too early blinded by the kiss of 
death — 

* Father and Mother will watch you grow '— 

You watch'd, not I ; she did not grow, 
she died. IOO 

' Father and Mother will watch you grow, 
And gather the roses whenever they blow, 
And find the white heather wherever you 
go, 

My sweet.' 



Ah, my white heather only blooms in 
heaven 

With Milton's amaranth. There, there, 
there ! a child 

Had shamed me at it — Down, you idle 
tools, 

Stampt into dust — tremulous, all 
awry, 

Blurr'd like a landskip in a ruffled 
pool, — 

Not one stroke firm. This Art, that 
harlot-like no 

Seduced me from you, leaves me har- 
lot-like, 

Who love her still, and whimper, im- 
potent 

To win her back before I die — and 
then — 

Then, in the loud world's bastard judg- 
ment-day, 

One truth will damn me with the mind- 
less mob, 

Who feel no touch of my temptation, 
more 

Than all the myriad lies that blacken 
round 

The corpse of every man that gains a 
name ; 

' This model husband, this fine artist ! ' 
Fool, 

What matters? Six foot deep of bu- 
rial mould 120 

Will dull their comments ! Ay, but 
when the shout 

Of His descending peals from heaven, 
and throbs 

Thro' earth and all her graves, if He 
should ask, 

' Why left you wife and children ? for 
my sake, 

According to my word ? ' and I re- 
plied, 

' Nay, Lord, for Art/ why, that would 
sound so mean 

That all the dead, who wait the doom 
of hell 

For bolder sins than mine, adulteries, 

Wife-murders, — nay, the ruthless 
Mussulman 

Who flings his bowstrung harem in 
the sea, 130 

Would turn, and glare at me, and 
point and jeer, 

And gibber at the worm who, living, 
made 



BY AN EVOLUTIONIST 



691 



The wife of wives a widow-bride, and 

lost 
Salvation for a sketch. 

I am wild again ! 
The coals of fire you heap upon my 

head 
Have crazed me. Some one knocking 

there without ? 
No ! Will my Indian brother come ? to 

find 
Me or my coffin ? Should I know the 

man? 
This worn-out Reason dying in her 

house 
May leave the windows blinded, and 

if so, 140 

Bid him farewell for me, and tell 

him — 

Hope ! 
I hear a death-bed angel whisper, 

' Hope/ 
1 The miserable have no medicine — 
But only hope !' He said it — in the 

play. 
His crime was of the senses ; of the 

mind 
Mine — worse, cold, calculated. 

Tell my son — 
O, let me lean my head upon your 

breast. 
1 Beat, little heart ' on this fool brain 

of mine. 
I once had friends — and many — none 

like you. 
I love you more than when we mar- 
ried. Hope ! 150 
O, yes, I hope, or fancy that, perhaps, 
Human forgiveness touches heaven, 

and thence — 
For you forgive me, you are sure of 

that — 
Reflected, sends a light on the for- 
given. 



PARNASSUS 

Exegi monumentum . . . 
Quod non . . . 
Possit diruere . . . 

. . . innumerabilis 
Annorum series et fuga temporum. 

Horace. 
1 

What be those crown'd forms high 
over the sacred fountain ? 



Bards, that the mighty Muses have 
raised to the heights of the 
mountain, 

And over the flight of the Ages ! 
O Goddesses, help me up thi- 
ther! 

Lightning may shrivel the laurel of 
Caesar, but mine would not 
wither. 

Steep is the mountain, but you, you 
will help me to overcome it, 

And stand with my head in the zenith, 
and roll my voice from the sum- 
mit, 

Sounding for ever and ever thro' Earth 
and her listening nations, 

And mixt with the great sphere-music 
of stars and of constellations. 

11 

What be those two shapes high over 
the sacred fountain, 

Taller than all the Muses, and huger 
than all the mountain ? 

On those two known peaks they stand 
ever spreading and heighten- 
ing; 

Poet, that evergreen laurel is blasted 
by more than lightning ! 

Look, in their deep double shadow 
the crown'd ones all disappear- 
ing ! 

Sing like a bird and be happy, nor hope 
for a deathless hearing ! 

1 Sounding for ever and ever ? ' pass 
on ! the sight confuses — 

These are Astronomy and Geology, 
terrible Muses! 



If the lips were touch'd with fire from 

off a pure Pierian altar, 
Tho' their music here be mortal need 

the singer greatly care ? 
Other songs for other worlds! the fire 

within him would not falter ; 
Let the golden Iliad vanish, Homer 

here is Homer there. 



BY AN EVOLUTIONIST 

The Lord let the house of a brute to 
the soul of a man, 
And the man said, 'Am I your 
debtor V ' 



692 



DEMETER AND OTHER POEMS 



And the Lord — * Not yet ; but make 
it as clean as you can, 
And then I will let you a better/ 



If my body come from brutes, my soul 
uncertain or a fable, 
Why not bask amid the senses while 
the sun of morning shines, 
I, the finer brute rejoicing in my 
hounds, and in my stable, 
Youth and health, and birth and 
wealth, and choice of women 
and of wines ? 



What hast thou done for me, grim Old 
Age, save breaking my bones on 
the rack ? 
Would I had past in the morn- 
ing that looks so bright from 
afar! 

OLD AGE 

Done for thee ? starved the wild beast 
that was linkt with thee eighty 
years back. 
Less weight now for the ladder-of- 
heaven that hangs on a star. 



If my body come from brutes, tho' 
somewhat finer than their own, 
I am heir, and this my king- 
dom. Shall the royal voice be 
mute? 
No, but if the rebel subject seek to 
drag me from the throne, 
Hold the sceptre, Human Soul, and 
rule thy province of the brute. 



I have climb'd to the snows of Age, 

and I gaze at a field in the 

Past, 
Where I sank with the body at 

times in the sloughs of a low 

desire, 
But I hear no yelp of the beast, and 

the Man is quiet at last, 
As he stands on the heights of his 

life with a glimpse of a height 

that is higher. 



FAR — FAR — AWAY 
(for music) 

What sight so lured him thro' the 
fields he knew 

As where earth's green stole into hea- 
ven's own hue, 

Far — far — away ? 

What sound was dearest in his native 

dells ? 
The mellow lin-lan-lone of evening 

bells 

Far — far — away. 

What vague world-whisper, mystic 

pain or joy, 
Thro' those three words would haunt 

him when a boy, 

Far — far — away ? 

A whisper from his dawn of life ? a 

breath 
From some fair dawn beyond the 

doors of death 

Far — far — away ? 

Far, far, how far ? from o'er the gates 

of birth, 
The faint horizons, all the bounds of 

earth, 

Far — far — away ? 

What charm in words, a charm no 

words could give ? 
O dying words, can Music make you 

live 

Far — far — away ? 



POLITICS 



We 



move, the wheel must always 
move, 
Nor always on the plain, 
And if we move to such a goal 

As Wisdom hopes to gain, 
Then you that drive, and know your 
craft, 
Will firmly hold the rein, 
Nor lend an ear to random cries, 

Or you may drive in vain ; 
For some cry 'Quick' and some cry 
'Slow/ 



THE THROSTLE 



I 






693 



But, while the hills remain, 


Which types all Nature's male and 


Up hill ' Too-slow ' will need the whip, 


female plan, 


Down hill ' Too- quick ' the chain. 


But, friend, man-woman is not woman- 
man. 


BEAUTIFUL CITY 






TO ONE WHO RAN DOWN THE 


Beautiful city, the centre and crater 


ENGLISH 


of European confusion, 




you with your passionate shriek 


You make our faults too gross, and 


for the rights of an equal hu- 


thence maintain 


manity, 


Our darker future. May your fears 


How often your Re- volution has pro- 


be vain ! 


ven but E-volution 


At times the small black fly upon the 


Roll'd again back on itself in the tides 


pane 


of a civic insanity ! 


May seem the black ox of the distant 




plain. 


THE ROSES ON THE TERRACE 






THE SNOWDROP 


Rose, on this terrace fifty years ago, 




When I was in my June, you in 


Many, many welcomes, 


your May, 


February fair-maid, 


Two words, 'My Rose,' set all your 


Ever as of old time, 


face aglow, 


Solitary firstling, 


And now that I am white and you 


Coming in the cold time, 


are gray, 


Prophet of the gay time, 


That blush of fifty years ago, my 


Prophet of the May time, 


dear, 


Prophet of the roses, 


Blooms in the past, but close to me 


Many, many welcomes, 


to-day, 


February fair-maid ! 


As this red rose, which on our terrace 




here 




Glows in the blue of fifty miles 


THE THROSTLE 


away. 






' Summer is coming, summer is com- 


THE PLAY 


ing. 
I know it, I know it, I know it. 




Light again, leaf again, life again, 


Act first, this Earth, a stage so 


love again ! ' 


gloom' d with woe 


Yes, my wild little Poet. 


You all but sicken at the shifting 




scenes. 


Sing the new year in under the blue. 


And yet be patient. Our Playwright 


Last year you sang it as gladly. 


may show 


'New, new, new, new!' Is it then 


In some fifth act what this wild 


so new 


Drama means. 


That you should carol so madly ? 




'Love again, song again, nest again, 


ON ONE WHO AFFECTED AN 


young again,' 


EFFEMINATE MANNER 


Never a prophet so crazy ! 




And hardly a daisy as yet, little friend, 


While man and woman still are in- 


See, there is hardly a daisy. 


complete, 




I prize that soul where man and wo- 


1 Here again, here, here, here, happy 


man meet, 


year ! ' 



694 



DEMETER AND OTHER POEMS 



warble unchidden, unbidden ! 


Look, he stands, 


Summer is coming, is coming, my 


Trunk and bough, 


dear, 


Naked strength. 


And all the winters are hidden. 




THE OAK 


IN MEMORIAM 


Live thy Life, 


W. G. WARD 


Young and old, 




Like yon oak, 


Farewell, whose like on earth I 


Bright in spring, 


shall not find, 


Living gold ; 


Whose Faith and Work were bells 




of full accord, 


Summer-rich 


My friend, the most unworldly of 


Then ; and then 


mankind, 


Autumn-changed, 


Most generous of all Ultramontanes, 


Soberer-hued 


Ward, 


Gold again. 


How subtle at tierce and quart of 




mind with mind, 


All his leaves 


How loyal in the following of thy 


Fallen at length, 


Lord! 







Queen Mary 



QUEEN MARY 

A DRAMA 

DRAMATIS PERSONS 
Queen Mary. 

Philip, King of Naples and Sicily, afterwards King of Spain. 
The Princess Elizabeth. 
Reginald Pole, Cardinal and Papal Legate. 
Simon Renard, Spanish Ambassador. 
Le Sieur de Noailles, French Ambassador. 
Thomas Cranmer, Archbishop of Canterbury. 

Sir Nicholas Heath, Archbishop of York; Lord Chancellor after Gardiner. 
Edward Courtenay, Earl of Devon. 

Lord William Howard, afterwards Lord Howard, and Lord High Admiral. 
Lord Williams of Thame. 
Lord Paget. 
Lord Petre. 

Stephen Gardiner, Bishop of Winchester and Lord Chancel lor. 
Edmund Bonner, Bishop of London. 
Thomas Thirlby, Bishop'of Ely. 
Sir Thomas Wyatt J T .. T , 

Sir Thomas Stafford j Insurrectionary Leaders. 






6 9 6 



QUEEN MARY 



ACT I 



Sir Ralph Bagenhall. 

Sir Robert Southwell. 

Sir Henry Bedlngfield. 

Sir William Cecil. 

Sir Thomas White, Lord Mayor of London. 

The Duke of Alva { attendi on pm 

The Count de I eria J ,v 1 

Peter Martyr. 

Father Cole. 

Father Bourne. 

Villa Garcia. 

Soto. 

Captain Brett / A n #..«/■ xxr..„** 

Anthony Knyvett J Adherents of Wyatt. 

Peters, Gentleman of Lord Howard. 

Roger, Servant to Noailles. 

William, Servant to Wyatt. 

Steward of Household to the Princess Elizabeth. 

Old Nokes and Nokes. 

Marchioness of Exeter, Mother of Courtenay. 

Lady Clarence \ 

Lady Magdalen Dacres > Ladies in Waiting to the Queen. 

Alice ) 

Maid of Honor to the Princess Elizabeth. 

Tib ( tw0 C° un t r y Wives. 



Lords and other Attendants, Members of the Privy Council, Members of Parliament, 
Two Gentlemen, Aldermen, Citizens, Peasants, Ushers, Messengers, Guards, Pages, Gos- 
pellers, Marshalmen, etc. 



QUEEN MARY 

ACT I 

Scene I. — Aldgate richly deco- 
rated 

Crowd. Marshalmen 

Marshalman. Stand back, keep a 
clear lane ! When will her Majesty 
pass, say'st thou ? why now, even 
now ; wherefore draw back your 
heads and your horns before I break 
them, and make what noise you will 
with your tongues, so it be not trea- 
son. Long live Queen Mary, the law- 
ful and legitimate daughter of Harry 
the Eighth ! Shout, knaves ! 10 

'Citizens. Long live Queen Mary ! 

First Citizen. That 's a hard word, 
legitimate ; what does it mean ? 

Second Citizen. It means a bastard. 

Ihird Citizen. Nay, it means true- 
born. 

First Citizen. Why, didn't the 
Parliament make her a bastard ? 

Second Citizen. No ; it was the 
Lady Elizabeth. 20 



Third Citizen. That was after, 
man ; that was after. 

First Citizen. Then which is the 
bastard ? 

Second Citizen. Troth, they be 
both bastards by Act of Parliament 
and Council. 

Third Citizen. Ay, the Parliament 
can make every true-born man of us 
a bastard. Old Nokes, can't it make 
thee a bastard ? thou shouldst know, 
for thou art as white as three Christ- 
mases. 33 

Old Nokes (dreamily). Who 's a- 
passing ? King Edward or King 
Eichard ? 

Third Citizen. No, old Nokes. 

Old Nokes. It 's Harry ! 

Third Citizen. It's Queen Mary. 

Old Nokes. The blessed Mary's a- 
passing ! [Falls on his knees. 

Nokes. Let father alone, my mas- 
ters ! he's past your questioning. 43 

Third Citizen. Answer thou for 
him, then ! thou 'rt no such cockerel 
thyself, for thou was born i' the tail 
end of old Harry the Seventh. 

Nokes. Eh ! that was afore bas- 



SCENE II 



QUEEN MARY 



697 



tard -making began. I was born true 
man at five in the forenoon, V the tail 
of old Harry, and so they can't make 
me a bastard. 52 

Third Citizen. But if Parliament 
can make the Queen a bastard, why, 
it follows all the more that they can 
make thee one, who art fray'd i' the 
knees, and out at elbow, and bald o' 
the back, and bursten at the toes, and 
down at heels. 

JVokes. I was born of a true man 
and a ring'd wife, and I can't argue 
upon it ; but I and my old woman 'ud 
burn upon it, that would we. 

Marshalman. What are you cack- 
ling of bastardy under the Queen's 
own nose ? I'll have you flogg'd and 
burnt too, by the rood I will. 

First Citizen. He swears by the 
rood. Whew ! 69 

Second Citizen. Hark ! the trum- 
pets. 

[ The Procession passes, Mary and 
Elizabeth riding side by side, and 
disappears under the gate. 

Citizens. Long live Queen Mary ! 
down with all traitors ! God save her 
Grace ; and death to Northumber- 
land ! [Exeunt. 
Manent Two Gentlemen. 

First Gentleman. By God's light a 
noble creature, right royal ! 

Second Gentleman. She looks come- 
lier than ordinary to-day ; but to my 
mind the Lady Elizabeth is the more 
noble and royal. 81 

First Gentleman. I mean the Lady 
Elizabeth. Did you hear (I have a 
daughter in her service who reported 
it) that she met the Queen at Wan- 
stead with five hundred horse, and 
the Queen (tho' some say they be 
much divided) took her hand, call'd 
her sweet sister, and kiss'd not her 
alone, but all the ladies of her follow- 
ing. 91 

Second Gentleman. Ay, that was in 
her hour of joy. There will be plenty 
to sunder and unsister them again ; 
this Gardiner for one, who is to be 
made Lord Chancellor, and will pounce 
like a wild beast out of his cage to 
worry Cranmer. 98 

First Gentleman. And, furthermore, 
my daughter said that when there 



rose a talk of the late rebellion, she 
spoke even of Northumberland piti- 
fully, and of the good Lady Jane as 
a poor innocent child who had but 
obeyed her father ; and, furthermore, 
she said that no one in her time should 
be burnt for heresy. 

Second Gentleman. Well, sir, I look 
for happy times. 109 

First Gentleman. There is but one 
thing against them. I know not if 
you know. 

Second Gentleman. I suppose you 
touch upon the rumor that Charles, 
the master of the world, has offer' d 
her his son Philip, the Pope and the 
devil. I trust it is but a rumor. n 7 

First Gentleman. She is going now 
to the Tower to loose the prisoners 
there, and among them Courtenay, to 
be made Earl of Devon, of royal blood, 
of splendid feature, whom the council 
and all her people wish her to marry. 
May it be so, for we are many of us 
Catholics, but few Papists, and the 
Hot Gospellers will go mad upon it. 

Second Gentleman. Was she not be- 
troth'd in her babyhood to the Great 
Emperor himself ? 129 

First Gentleman. Ay, but he 's too 
old. 

Second Gentleman. And again to 
her cousin Reginald Pole, now Cardi- 
nal ; but I hear that he too is full of 
aches and broken before his day. 

First Gentleman. Oh, the Pope 
could dispense with his cardinalate, 
and his achage, and his breakage, if 
that were all. Will you not follow 
the procession ? 140 

Second Gentleman. No ; I have seen 
enough for this day. 

First Gentleman. Well, I shall fol- 
low ; if I can get near enough I shall 
judge with my own eyes whether her 
Grace incline to this splendid scion of 
Plantagenet. [Exeunt. 

Scene II 

A Room in Lambeth Palace 

Cranmer. To Strasburg, Antwerp. 
Frankfort, Zurich, Worms, 
Geneva, Basle — our bishops from their 
sees 



6 9 8 



QUEEN MARY 



ACT I 



Or fled, they say, or flying — Poinet, 
Barlow, 

Bale, Scory, Coverdale ; besides the 
deans 

Of Christchurch, Durham, Exeter, 
and Wells — 

Ailmer and Bullingham, and hundreds 
more ; 

So they report. I shall be left alone. 

JSTo; Hooper, Ridley, Latimer, will 
not fly. 

Enter Peter Martyr. 
Peter Martyr. Fly, Cranmer ! were 
there nothing else, your name 

Stands first of those who sign'd the 
letters patent 10 

That gave her royal crown to Lady 
Jane. 
Cranmer. Stand first it may, but it 
was written last. 

Those that are now her privy council 
sign'd 

Before me ; nay, the judges had pro- 
nounced 

That our young Edward might be- 
queath the crown 

Of England, putting by his father's 
will. 

Yet I stood out, till Edward sent for 
me. 

The wan boy -king, with his fast- fad- 
ing eyes 

Fixt hard on mine, his frail transpar- 
ent hand, 

Damp with the sweat of death, and 
griping mine, 20 

Whisper' d me, if I loved him, not to 
yield 

His Church of England to the Papal 
wolf 

And Mary; then I could no more — I 
sign'd. 

Nay, for bare shame of inconsistency, 

She cannot pass her traitor council 

by, 

To make me headless. 

Peter Martyr. That might be for- 
given. 
I tell you, fly, my lord. You do not 

own 
The bodily presence in the Eucharist, 
Their wafer and perpetual sacrifice : 
Your creed will be your death. 

Cranmer. Step after step, 

Thro' many voices crying right and 

left, 31 



Have I climb' d back into the primal 

church, 
And stand within the porch, and Christ 

with me, 
My flight were such a scandal to the 

faith, 
The downfall of so many simple souls, 
I dare not leave my post. 

Peter Martyr. But you divorced 
Queen Catharine and her father ; hence, 

her hate 
Will burn till you are burn'd. 

Cranmer. I cannot help it. 

The Canonists and Schoolmen were 

with me. 
'Thou shalt not wed thy brother's 

wife. ' — 'T is written, 40 

1 They shall be childless.' True, Mary 

was born, 
But France would not accept her for 

a bride 
As being born from incest ; and this 

wrought 
Upon the King; and child by child, 

you know, 
Were momentary sparkles, out as quick 
Almost as kindled ; and he brought 

his doubts 
And fears to me. Peter, I '11 swear 

for him 
He did believe the bond incestuous. 
But wherefore am I trenching on the 

time 
That should already have seen your 

steps a mile 50 

From me and Lambeth ? God be with 

you ! Go. 
Peter Martyr. Ah, but how fierce a 

letter you wrote against 
Their superstition when they slander'd 

you 
For setting up a mass at Canterbury 
To please the Queen ! 

Cranmer. It was a wheedling monk 
Set up the mass. 
Peter Martyr. I know it, my good 

lord. 
But you so bubbled over with hot 

terms 
Of Satan, liars, blasphemy, Antichrist, 
She never will forgive you. Fly, my 

lord, fly ! 
Cranmer. I wrote it, and God grant 

me power to burn ! 60 

Peter Martyr. They have given me 

a safe conduct ; for all that 



SCENE III 



QUEEN MARY 



699 



I dare not stay. I fear, I fear, I see 

you, 
Dear friend, for the last time ; fare- 
well, and fly. 
Cranmer. Fly and farewell, and let 
me die the death. 

[Exit Peter Martyr. 
Enter Old Servant. 
O, kind and gentle master, the Queen's 

Officers 
Are here in force to take you to the 
Tower. 
Cranmer. Ay, gentle friend, admit 
them. I will go. 
I thank my God it is too late to fly. 

[Exeunt. 



Scene III 

St. Paul's Cross 

Father Bourne in the pulpit. A 
crowd. Marchioness of Exeter, 
Courtenay. The Sieur De No- 
ailles and his man Roger in front 
of the stage. Hubbub. 

Noailles. Hast thou let fall those 
papers in the palace ? 

Roger. Ay, sir. 

Noailles. 'There will be no peace 
for Mary till Elizabeth lose her head/ 

Roger. Ay, sir. 

Noailles. And the other, ' Long live 
Elizabeth the Queen ! ' 

Roger. Ay, sir ; she needs must 
tread upon them. 

Noailles. Well. 

These beastly swine make such a 

grunting here, 
I cannot catch what Father Bourne is 
saying. 10 

Roger. Quiet a moment, my mas- 
ters ; hear what the shaveling has to 
say for himself. 

Crowd. Hush — hear ! 

Bourne. — and so this unhappy 
land, long divided in itself, and sev- 
er'd from the faith, will return into 
the one true fold, seeing that our gra- 
cious Virgin Queen hath — 

Croicd. No pope ! no pope ! 20 

Roger (to those about Mm, mimicking 
Bourne). — hath sent for the holy le- 
gate of the holy father the Pope, Car- 



dinal Pole, to give us all that holy 
absolution which — 

First Citizen. Old Bourne to the 
life! 

Second Citizen. Holy absolution ! 
holy Inquisition ! 29 

Third Citizen. Down with the Pa- 
pist ! [Hubbub. 

Bourne. — and now that your good 
bishop, Bonner, who hath lain so long 
under bonds for the faith — [Hubbub. 

Noailles. Friend Roger, steal thou 
in among the crowd, 
And get the swine to shout ' Eliza- 
beth. ' 
Yon gray old Gospeller, sour as mid- 
winter, 
Begin with him. 38 

Roger {goes). By the mass, old friend, 
we '11 have no pope here while the Lady 
Elizabeth lives. 

Gospeller. Art thou of the true faith, 
fellow, that swearest by the mass ? 

Roger. Ay, that am I, new con- 
verted, but the old leaven sticks to my 
tongue yet. 

First Citizen. He says right ; by 
the mass, we'll have no mass here. 48 

Voices of the Croicd. Peace ! hear 
him ; let his own words damn the Pa- 
pist. From thine own mouth I judge 
thee — tear him down ! 

Bourne. — and since our gracious 
Queen, let me call her our second Vir- 
gin Mary, hath begun to re-edify the 
true temple — 

First Citizen. Virgin Mary ! we '11 
have no virgins here — we '11 have the 
Lady Elizabeth ! 59 

[Swords are drawn, a knife is 
hurled and sticks in the pulpit. 
The mob throng to the pulpit 
stairs. 

Marchioness of Exeter. Son Courte- 
nay, wilt thou see the holy fa- 
ther 

Murdered before thy face? up, son, 
and save him ! 

They love thee, and thou canst not 
come to harm. 
Courtenay {in the pulpit). Shame, 
shame, my masters ! are you 
English-born, 

And set yourselves by hundreds 
against one ? 64 



700 



QUEEN MARY 



ACT I 



Croicd. A Courtenay ! a Courte- 
nay ! 
[ A train of Spanish servants crosses 
at the back of the stage. 
Noailles. These birds of passage 
come before their time. 
Stave off the crowd upon the Spaniard 
there. 
Roger. My masters, yonder 's fatter 
game for you 
Than this old gaping gurgoyle ; look 

you there — 
The Prince of Spain coming to wed our 
Queen ! 70 

After him, boys ! and pelt him from 
the city. 
[They seize stones and follow the 
Spaniards. Exeunt on the other 
side Marchioness of Exeter and 
Attendants. 
Noailles {to Roger). Stand from me. 
If Elizabeth lose her head — 
That makes for France. 
And if her people, anger'd there- 
upon, 
Arise against her and dethrone the 

Queen — 
That makes for France. 
And if I breed confusion any way — 
That makes for France. 

Good-day, my Lord of Devon ; 
A bold heart yours to beard that ra- 
ging mob ! 
Courtenay. My mother said, Go 
up ; and up I went. 80 

I knew they would not do me any 

wrong, 
For I am mighty popular with them, 
Noailles. 
Noailles. You look'd a king. 
Courtenay. Why not ? I am king's 

blood. 
Noailles. And in the whirl of 

change may come to be one. 
Courtenay. Ah ! 
Noailles. But does your gracious 

Queen entreat you kinglike ? 
Courtenay. 'Fore God, I think she 

entreats me like a child. 
Noailles. You 've but a dull life in 
this maiden court, 
I fear, my lord ? 

Courtenay. A life of nods and 

yawns. 
Noailles. So you would honor my 
poor house to-night, 90 



We might enliven you. Divers hon- 
est fellows, 
The Duke of Suffolk lately freed from 

prison, 
Sir Peter Carew and Sir Thomas Wy~ 

att, 
Sir Thomas Stafford, and some more 
— we play. 
Courtenay. At what ? 
Noailles. The game of chess. 
Courtenay. The game of chess ! 

I can play well, and I shall beat you 
there. 
Noailles. Ay, but we play with 
Henry, King of France, 
And certain of his court. 
His Highness makes his moves across 

the Channel, 
We answer him with ours, and there 
are messengers 100 

That go between us. 

Courtenay. Why, such a game, 

sir, were whole years a-playing. 

Noailles. Nay ; not so long I trust. 

That all depends 

Upon the skill and swiftness of the 

players. 

Courtenay. The King is skilful at 

it? 
Noailles. Very, my Lord. 

Courtenay. And the stakes high ? 
Noailles. But not beyond your 

means. 
Courtenay. Well, I'm the first of 

players. I shall win. 
Noailles. With our advice and in 
our company, 
And so you well attend to the King's 

moves, 
I think you may. 

Courtenay. When do you meet ? 

Noailles. To-night. 

Courtenay {aside). I will be there ; 

the fellow's at his tricks — m 

Deep — I shall fathom him. {Aloud.) 

Good morning, Noailles. 

[Exit Courtenay. 

Noailles. Good-day, my Lord. 

Strange game of chess ! a king 

That with her own pawns plays 

against a queen, 
Whose play is all to find herself a king. 
Ay ; but this fine blue-blooded Cour- 
tenay seems 
Too princely for a pawn. Call him a 
knight, 



SCENE IV 



QUEEN MARY 



701 



That, with an ass's, not a horse's head, 
Skips every way, from levity or from 

fear. 
Well, we shall use him somehow, so 

that Gardiner 120 

And Simon Renard spy not out our 

game 
Too early. Roger, thinkest thou that 

any one 
Suspected thee to be my man ? 
Roger. Not one, sir. 

Noailles. No ! the disguise was 

perfect. Let's away. [Exeunt. 



Scene IV 

London. A Room in the Palace 

Elizabeth. Enter Courtenay. 

Court enay. So yet am I, 
Unless my friends and mirrors lie to 

me, 
A goodlier-looking fellow than this 

Philip. 
Pah! 
The Queen is ill advised. Shall I turn 

traitor ? 
They 've almost talked me into it ; yet 

the word 
Affrights me somewhat ; to be such a 

one 
As Harry Bolingbroke hath a lure in 

it. 
Good now, my Lady Queen, tho' by 

your age 
And by your looks you are not worth 

the having, 10 

Yet by your crown you are. 

[Seeing Elizabeth. 

The Princess there ? 

If I tried her, and la — she 's amorous. 

Have we not heard of her in Edward's 

time, 
Her freaks and frolics with the late 

Lord Admiral ? 
I do believe she'd yield. I should be 

still 
A party in the State ; and then, who 

knows — 
Elizabeth. What are you musing 

on, my Lord of Devon ? 
Courtenay. Has not the Queen — 
Elizabeth. Done what, Sir ? 
Courtenay. — made you follow 



The Lady Suffolk and the Lady Len- 
nox ? — you, 
The heir presumptive. 

Elizabeth. Why do you ask ? you 

know it. 20 

Courtenay. You needs must bear 

it hardly. 
Elizabeth. No, indeed ! 

I am utterly submissive to the Queen. 
Courtenay. Well, I was musing 
upon that ; the Queen 
Is both my foe and yours ; we should 
be friends. 
Elizabeth. My Lord, the hatred of 
another to us 
Is no true bond of friendship. 

Courtenay. Might it not 

Be the rough preface of some closer 
bond? 
Elizabeth. My lord, you late were 
loosed from out the Tower, 
Where, like a butterfly in a chrysalis, 
You spent your life ; that broken, out 
you flutter 30 

Thro' the new world, go zigzag, now 

would settle 
Upon this flower, now that. But all 

things here 
At court are known ; you have so- 
licited 
The Queen, and been rejected. 

Courtenay. Flower, she ! 

Half faded !Jbut you, cousin, are fresh 

and sweet 
As the first flower no bee has ever 
tried. 
Elizabeth. Are you the bee to try 
me ? why, but now 
I called you butterfly. 

Courtenay, You did me wrong, 

I love not to be called a butterfly. 
Why do you call me butterfly? 40 

Elizabeth. Why do you go so gay 

then? 
Courtenay. Velvet and gold. 
This dress was made me as the Earl 

of Devon 
To take my seat in ; looks it not right 
royal ? 
Elizabeth. So royal that the Queen 

forbade you wearing it. 
Courtenay. I wear it then to spite 

her. 
Elizabeth. My lord, my lord ; 
I see you in the Tower again. Her 
Majesty 






702 



QUEEN MARY 



ACT I 



Hears you affect the Prince — prelates 
kneel to you. — 
Courtenay. I am the noblest blood 
in Europe, Madam, 
A Courtenay of Devon, and her cousin. 
Elizabeth. She hears you make your 
boast that after all 50 

She means to wed you. Folly, my 
good lord. 
Courtenay. How folly ? a great party 
in the State 
Wills me to wed her. 

Elizabeth, Failing her, my lord, 

Doth not as great a party in the State 
Will you to wed me ? 

Courtenay. Even so, fair lady. 

Elizabeth. You know to flatter ladies. 
Courtenay, Nay, I meant 

True matters of the heart. 

Elizabeth. My heart, my lord, 

Is no great party in the State as 
yet. 
Courtenay. Great, said you? nay, 
you shall be great. I love you, 
Lay my life in your hands. Can you 
be close ? 60 

Elizabeth. Can you, my lord ? 
Courtenay. Close as a miser's casket. 
Listen : 

The King of France, Noailles the Am- 
bassador, 
The Duke of Suffolk and Sir Peter 

Carew, 
Sir Thomas Wyatt, I myself, some 

others, 
Have sworn this Spanish marriage 

shall not be. 
If Mary will not hear us — well — con- 

j ecture — 
Were I in Devon with my wedded 

bride, 
The people there so worship me — 

your ear ; 
You shall be Queen. 

Elizabeth. You speak too low, my 
lord ; 70 

I cannot hear you. 

Courtenay. I '11 repeat it. 

Elizabeth. No ! 

Stand further off, or you may lose 
your head. 
Courtenay. I have a head to lose for 

your sweet sake. 
Elizabeth. Have you, my lord? Best 
keep it for your own. 
Nay, pout not, cousin. 



Not many friends are mine, except 

indeed 
Among the many. I believe you mine ; 
And so you may continue mine, fare- 
well, 
And that at once. 

Enter Mary, behind. 
Mary. Whispering — leagued to- 
gether 
To bar me from my Philip. 

Courtenay. Pray — consider — 

Elizabeth {seeing the Queen). Well, 

that's a noble horse of yours, 

my lord. 81 

I trust that he will carry you well to- 
day, 
And heal your headache. 

Courtenay. You are wild ; what 

headache ? 
Heartache, perchance ; not headache. 
Elizabeth (aside to Courtenay). Are 

you blind ? 
[Courtenay sees the Queen and exit. 

Exit Mary. 
Enter Lord William Howard. 
Howard. Was that my Lord of Devon ? 

do not you 
Be seen in corners with my Lord of 

Devon. 
He hath fallen out of favor with the 

Queen. 
She fears the lords may side with you 

and him 
Against her marriage ; therefore is he 

dangerous. 
And if this Prince of fluff and feather 

come 90 

To woo you, niece, he is dangerous 

everyway. 
Elizabeth. Not very dangerous that 

. way, my good uncle. 
Howard. But your own state is full 

of danger here. 
The disaffected, heretics, reformers, 
Look to you as the one to crown their 

ends. 
Mix not yourself with any plot I pray 

you; 
Nay, if by chance you hear of any 

such, 
Speak not thereof — no, not to your 

best friend, 
Lest you should be confounded with 

it. Still — 
Perinde ac cadaver — as the priest 

says, 100 



SCENE IV 



QUEEN MARY 



703 



You know your Latin — quiet as a 

dead body. 
What was my Lord of Devon telling 

you? 
Elizabeth. Whether he told me any- 
thing or not, 
I follow your good counsel, gracious 

uncle. 
Quiet as a dead body. 

Hoicard. You do right well. 

I do not care to know ; but this I 

charge you, 
Tell Courtenay nothing. The Lord 

Chancellor — 
I count it as a kind of virtue in 

him, 
He hath not many — as a mastiff dog 
May love a puppy cur for no more 

reason no 

Than that the twain have been tied up 

together, 
Thus Gardiner — for the two were 

fellow-prisoners 
So many years in yon accursed 

Tower — 
Hath taken to this Courtenay. Look 

to it, niece, 
He hath no fence when Gardiner 

questions him ; 
All oozes out ; yet him — because they 

know him 
The last White Rose, the last Plan- 

tagenet — 
Nay, there is Cardinal Pole, too — the 

people 
Claim as their natural leader — ay, 

some say 
That you shall marry him, make him 

king belike. 120 

Elizabeth. Do they say so, good 

uncle ? 
Howard. Ay, good niece ! 

You should be plain and open with 

me, niece. 
You should not play upon me. 
Elizabeth. No, good uncle. 

Enter Gardiner. 
Gardiner. The Queen would see 

your Grace upon the moment. 
Elizabeth. Why, my lord bishop ? 
Gardiner. I think she means to 
counsel your withdrawing 
To Ashridge, or some other country 
house. 
Elizabeth. Why, my lord bishop ? 



Gardiner. I do but bring the mes- 
sage, know no more. 
Your Grace will hear her reasons from 

herself. 13a 

Elizabeth. 'T is mine own wish ful- 

fill'd before the word 
Was spoken, for in truth I had meant 

to crave 
Permission of her Highness to retire 
To Ashridge, and pursue my studies 

there. 
Gardiner. Madam, to have the wish 

before the word 
Is man's good fairy — and the Queen 

is yours. 
I left her with rich jewels in her hand, 
Whereof 'tis like enough she means 

to make 
A farewell present to your Grace. 

Elizabeth. My lord,. 

I have the jewel of a loyal heart. 
Gardiner. I doubt it not, madam r 

most loyal. [Bows low and exit. 

Howard. See, 141 

This comes of parleying with my Lord 

of Devon. 
Well, well, you must obey ; and I 

myself 
Believe it will be better for your wel- 
fare. 
Your time will come. * 
Elizabeth. I think my time will 

come. 
Uncle, 
I am of sovereign nature, that I 

know, 
Not to be quell'd ; and I have felt 

within me 
Stirrings of some great doom when 

God's just hour 
Peals — but this fierce old Gardiner — 

his big baldness, 150 

That irritable forelock which he rubs, 
His buzzard beak and deep-incavern'd 

eyes 
Half fright me. 
Howard. You 've a bold heart ; keep 

it so. 
He cannot touch you save that you 

turn traitor ; 
And so take heed I pray you — you 

are one 
Who love that men should smile upon 

you, niece. 
They 'd smile you into treason — some 

of them. 



7°4 



QUEEN MARY 



ACT I 



Elizabeth. I spy the rock beneath the 

smiling sea. 
But if this Philip, the proud Catholic 

prince, 
And this bald priest, and she that hates 

me, seek 160 

In that lone house to practise on my 

life, 
By poison, fire, shot, stab — 

Howard. They will not, niece. 

Mine is the fleet and all the power at 

sea — 
Or will be in a moment. If they dared 
To harm you, I would blow this Philip 

and all 
Your trouble to the dog-star and the 

devil. 
Elizabeth. To the Pleiads, uncle ; 

they have lost a sister. 
Howard. But why say that ? what 

have you done to lose her ? 
Come, come, I will go with you to the 

Queen. [Exeunt. 



Scene V 

A Room in the Palace 

Mary icith Philip's miniature. 
Alice. 

Mary (kissing the miniature). Most 
goodly, kinglike, and an em- 
peror's son, — 
A king to be, — is he not noble, girl ? 
Alice. Goodly enough, your Grace, 
and yet, methinks, 
I have seen goodlier. 

Mary. Ay ; some waxen doll 

Thy baby eyes have rested on, belike ; 
All red and white, the fashion of our 

land. 
But my good mother came — God rest 

her soul ! — 
Of Spain, and I am Spanish in myself, 
And in my likings. 

Alice. By your Grace's leave, 

Your royal mother came of Spain, but 

took 10 

To the English red and white. Your 

royal father — 
For so they say — was all pure lily and 

rose 
In his youth, and like a lady. 
Mary. O just God! 



Sweet mother, you had time and cause 

enough 
To sicken of his lilies and his roses. 
Cast off, betray'd, defamed, divorced, 

forlorn ! 
And then the King — that traitor past 

forgiveness, 
The false archbishop fawning on him, 

married 
The mother of Elizabeth — a heretic 
Even as she is ; but God hath sent me 

here 20 

To take such order with all heretics 
That it shall be, before I die, as tho' 
My father and my brother had not 

lived. 
What wast thou saying of this Lady 

Jane, 
Now in the Tower ? 

Alice. Why madam, she was passing 
Some chapel down in Essex, and with 

her 
Lady Anne Wharton, and the Lady 

Anne 
Bow'd to the pyx ; but Lady Jane 

stood up 
Stiff as the very backbone of heresy. 
And wherefore bow ye not, says Lady 

Anne, 30 

To him within there who made heaven 

and earth ? 
I cannot, and I dare not, tell your 

Grace 
What Lady Jane replied. 
Mary. But I will have it. 

Alice. She said — pray pardon me, 

and pity her — 
She hath hearken'd evil counsel — ah ! 

she said 
The baker made him. 

Mary. Monstrous ! blasphemous ! 
She ought to burn. Hence, thou 

[Exit Alice. 

No — being traitor 

Her head will fall. Shall it V she is 

but a child. 
We do not kill the child fordoing that 
His father whipt him into doing — a 

head 40 

So full of grace and beauty ! would 

that mine 
Were half as gracious ! O, my lord to 

be, 
My love, for thy sake only ! 
I am eleven years older than he is. 
But will he care for that ? 



SCENE V 



QUEEN MARY 



705 



No, by the holy Virgin, being noble, 
But love me only. Then the bastard 

sprout, 
My sister, is far fairer than myself. 
Will he be drawn to her ? 
No, being of the true faith with my- 
self. 50 
Paget is for him — for to wed with 

Spain 
Would treble England — Gardiner is 

against him ; 
The Council, people, Parliament 

against him ; 
But I will have him ! My hard father 

hated me ; 
My brother rather hated me than loved ; 
My sister cowers and hates me. Holy 

Virgin, 
Plead with thy blessed Son ; grant me 

my prayer. 
Give me my Philip ; and we two will 

lead 
The living waters of the Faith again 
Back thro' their widow' d channel here, 

and watch 60 

The parch' d banks rolling incense, as 

of old, 
To heaven, and kindled with the palms 

of Christ ! 

Enter Usher. 
Who waits, sir ? 

Usher. Madam, the Lord Chancel- 
lor. 
Mary. Bid him come in. (Enter 
Gardiner.) Good morning, my 
good lord. [Exit Usher. 

Gardiner. That every morning of 
your Majesty 
May be most good, is every morning's 

prayer 
Of your most loyal subject, Stephen 
Gardiner. 
Mary. Come you to tell me this, my 

lord? 
Gardiner. And more. 
Your people have begun to learn your 

worth. 
Your pious wish to pay King Edward's 
debts, 70 

Your lavish household curb'd, and the 

remission 
Of half that subsidy levied on the peo- 
ple, 
Make all tongues praise and all hearts 
beat for you. 



I'd have you yet more loved. The 
realm is poor, 

The exchequer at neap-tide ; we might 
withdraw 

Part of our garrison at Calais. 
Mary. Calais ! 

Our one point on the main, the gate of 
France ! 

I am Queen of England; take mine 
eyes, mine heart, 

But do not lose me Calais. 

Gardiner. Do not fear it. 

Of that hereafter. I say your Grace is 
loved. 80 

That I may keep you thus, who am 
your friend 

And ever faithful counsellor, might I 
speak ? 
Mary. I can forespeak your speak- 
ing. Would I marry 

Prince Philip, if all England hate him ? 
That is 

Your question, and I front it with 
another : 

Is it England, or a party ? Now, your 
answer. 
Gardiner. My answer is, I wear be- 
neath my dress 

A shirt of mail ; my house hath been 
assaulted, 

And when I walk abroad the populace, 

With fingers pointed like so many dag- 
gers, 90 

Stab me in fancy, hissing Spain and 
Philip ; 

And when I sleep a hundred men-at- 
arms 

Guard my poor dreams for England. 
Men would murder me, 

Because they think me favorer of this 
marriage. 
Mary. And that were hard upon you, 

my Lord Chancellor. 
Gardiner. But our young Earl of 

Devon — . 
Mary. Earl of Devon ? 

I freed him from the Tower, placed 
him at Court ; 

I made him Earl of Devon, and — the 
fool — 

He wrecks his health and wealth on 
courtesans, 

And rolls himself in carrion like a dog. 

Gardiner. More like a school-boy 

that hath broken bounds 101 

Sickening himself with sweets. 



706 



QUEEN MARY 



ACT I 



Mary. I will not hear of him. 

Good, then, they will revolt ; but I am 

Tudor, 
And shall control them. 

Gardiner. I will help you, madam, 
Even to the utmost. All the church is 

grateful. 
You have ousted the mock priest, re- 

pulpited 
The shepherd of Saint Peter, raised 

the rood again, 
And brought us back the mass. I am 

all thanks 
To God and to your Grace ; yet I know 

well, 
Your people, and I go with them so 
far, no 

Will brook nor Pope nor Spaniard 

here to play 
The tyrant, or in commonwealth or 
church. 
Mary {showing the picture). Is this 
the face of one who plays the 
tyrant ? 
Peruse it ; is it not goodly, ay, and 
gentle ? 
Gardiner. Madam, me thinks a cold 
face and a haughty. 
And when your Highness talks of 

Courtenay — 
Ay, true — a goodly one. I would 

his life 
Were half as goodly {aside). 
Mary. What is that you mutter ? 
Gardiner. O, madam, take it 
bluntly ; marry Philip, 
And be stepmother of a score of sons ! 
The prince is known in Spain, in 
Flanders, ha! 121 

For Philip — 
Mary. You offend us ; you may 
leave us. 
You see thro' warping glasses. 

Gardiner. If your Majesty — 

Mary. I have sworn upon the body 
and blood of Christ 
I '11 none but Philip. 

Gardiner. Hath your Grace so 

sworn ? 
Mary. Av, Simon Renard knows 

it. 
Gardiner. News to me ! 
It then 1 remains for your poor Gardi- 
ner, 
So you still care to trust him some- 
what less 



Than Simon Renard, to compose the 

event 
In some such form as least may harm 
your Grace. 130 

Mary. I '11 have the scandal sound ed 
to the mud. 
I know it a scandal. 

Gardiner. All my hope is now 

It may be found a scandal. 

Mary. You offend us. 

Gardiner {aside). These princes are 

like children, must be phy- 

sick'd, 

The bitter in the sweet. I have lost 

mine office, 
It may be, thro' mine honesty, like a 
fool. [Exit. 

Enter Usher. 
Mary. Who waits ? 
Usher. The ambassador from 

France, your Grace. 
Mary {sits down). Bid him come in. 
Good morning, Sir de Noailles. 
[Exit Usher. 
Noailles {entering). A happy morn- 
ing to your Majesty. 
Mary. And I should some time 
have a happy morning ; 140 

I have had none yet. What says the 
King your master ? 
Noailles. Madam, my master hears 
with much alarm 
That you may marry Philip, Prince 

of Spain — 
Foreseeing, with whate'er unwilling- 
ness, 
That if this Philip be the titular King 
Of England, and at war with him, 

your Grace 
And kingdom will be suck'd into the 

war, 
Ay, tho' you long for peace ; where- 
fore, my master, 
If but to prove your Majesty's good- 
will, 
Would fain have some fresh treaty 
drawn between you. 150 

Mary. Why some fresh treaty ? 
wherefore should I do it ? 
Sir, if we marry, we shall still main- 
tain 
All former treaties with his Majesty. 
Our royal word for that ! and your 

good master, 
Pray God he do not be the first to 
break them, 



SCENE V 



QUEEN MARY 



707 




Philip 



Must be content with that ; and so, 

farewell. 
Noailles {going, returns). I would 

your answer had been other, 

madam, 
For I foresee dark days. 

Mary. And so do I, sir ; 

Your master works against me in the 

dark. 159 

I do believe he holp Northumberland 
Against me. 
Noailles. Nay, pure phantasy, 

your Grace. 
Why should he move against you ? 

Mary. Will you hear why ? 

Mary of Scotland, — for I have not 

own'd 
My sister, and I will not, — after 

me 
Is heir of England ; and my royal 

father, 
To make the crown of Scotland one 

with ours, 



Had mark'd her for my brother Ed- 
ward's bride ; 

Ay, but your king stole her a babe 
from Scotland 

In order to betroth her to your Dau- 
phin. 

See then : 170 

Mary of Scotland, married to your 
Dauphin, 

Would make our England, France ; 

Mary of England, joining hands with 
Spain, 

Would be too strong for France. 

Yea, were there issue born to her, 
Spain and we, 

One crown, might rule the world. 
There lies your fear. 

That is your drift. You play at hide 
and seek. 

Show me your faces ! 
Noailles. Madam, T am amazed. 

French, I must needs wish all good 
things for France. 



708 



QUEEN MARY 



ACT I 



That must be pardon'd me ; but I pro- 
test 1 80 
Your Grace's policy hath a farther 

flight - 
Than mine into the future. We but 

seek 
Some settled ground for peace to 
stand upon. 
Mary. Well, we will leave all this, 
sir, to our council. 
Have you seen Philip ever ? * 
Noailles. Only once. 

Mary. Is this like Philip ? 
Noailles. Ay, but nobler-looking. 
Mary. Hath he the large ability of 

the Emperor ? 
Noailles. No, surely. 
Mary. I can make allowance for 
thee, 
Thou speakest of the enemy of thy 
king. 
Noailles. Make no allowance for 
the naked truth. 190 

He is every way a lesser man than 

Charles ; 
Stone-hard, ice-cold — no dash of dar- 
ing in him. 
Mary. If cold, his life is pure. 
Noailles. Why {smiling), no, in- 

deed. 
Mary. Say'st thou ? 
Noailles. A very wanton life in- 
deed {smiling). 
Mary. Your audience is concluded, 
sir. {Exit Noailles.) You cannot 
Learn a man's nature from his natural 
foe. 

Enter Usher. 
Who waits ? 

Usher. The ambassador of Spain, 
your Grace. [Exit. 

Enter Simon Renard. 
Mary {rising to meet Mm). Thou 
art ever welcome, Simon Re- 
nard. Hast thou 
Brought me the letter which thine 
Emperor promised i 99 

Long since, a formal offer of the hand 
Of Philip ? 

Renard. Nay, your Grace, it hath 
not reach' d me. 
I know not wherefore — some mis- 
chance of flood, 
And broken bridge, or spavin'd horse, 
or wave 



And wind at their old battle ; he must 

have written. 
Mary. But Philip never writes me 

one poor word, 
Which in his absence had beeD all my 

wealth. 
Strange in a wooer ! 

Renard. Yet I know the Prince, 
So your king-parliament suffer him to 

land, 
Yearns to set foot upon your island 

shore. 
Mary. God change the pebble 

which his kingly foot 210 

First presses into some more costly 

stone 
Than ever blinded eye ! I '11 have one 

mark it 
And bring it me. I'll have it bur- 

nish'd firelike ; 
I '11 set it round with gold, with pearl, 

with diamond. 
Let the great angel of the Church 

come with him, 
Stand on the deck and spread his 

wings for sail ! 
God lay the waves and strow the 

storms at sea, 
And here at land among the people ! 

O Renard, 
I am much beset, I am almost in de- 
spair. 
Paget is ours. Gardiner perchance 

is ours ; 220 

But for our heretic Parliament — 

Renard. O madam, 

You fly your thoughts like kites. My 

master, Charles, 
Bade you go softly with your heretics 

here, 
Until your throne had ceased to trem- 
ble. Then 
Spit them like larks for aught I care. 

Besides, 
When Henry broke the carcase of 

your church 
To pieces, there were many wolves 

among you 
Who dragg'd the scatter'd limbs into 

their den. 
The Pope would have you make them 

render these ; 
So would your cousin, Cardinal Pole 

— ill counsel ! 230 

These let them keep at present ; stir 

not yet 



SCENE V 



QUEEN MARY 



709 



This matter of the Church lands. At 

his coming 
Your star will rise. 

Mary. My star ! a baleful one. 

I see but the black night, and hear the 

wolf. 
What star ? 
Renard. Your star will be your 
princely son, 
Heir of this England and the Nether- 
lands ! 
And if. your wolf the while should 

howl for more, 
We '11 dust him from a bag of Spanish 

gold. 
I do believe — I have dusted some al- 
ready — 
That, soon or late, your Parliament is 
ours. 240 

Mary. Why do they talk so foully 
of your Prince, 
Kenard ? 
Renard. The lot of princes. To 
sit high 
Is to be lied about. 

Mary. They call him cold, 

Haughty, ay, worse. 
Renard. Why, doubtless, Philip 
shows 
Some of the bearing of your blue blood 

— still 
All within measure — nay, it well be- 
comes him. 
Mary. Hath he the large ability of 

his father ? 
Renard. Nay, some believe that he 

will go beyond him. 
Mary. Is this like him ? 
Renard: Ay, somewhat ; but your 
Philip 
Is the most princelike prince beneath 
the sun. 250 

This is a daub to Philip. 
Mary. Of a pure life ? 

Renard. As an angel among angels. 
Yea, by Heaven, 
The text — Your Highness knows 

it, 'Whosoever 
Looketh after a woman/ would not 

graze 
The Prince of Spain. You are happy 

in him there, 
Chaste as your Grace ! 
Mary. I am happy in him there. 
Renard. And would be altogether 
happy, madam, 



So that your sister were but look'd to 

closer. 
You have sent her from the court, but 

then she goes, 259 

I warrant, not to hear the nightingales, 
But hatch you some new treason in the 

woods. 
Mary. We have our spies abroad to 

catch her tripping, 
And then, if caught, to the Tower. 

Renard. The Tower 1 the block ! 
The word has turn'd your Highness 

pale ; the thing 
Was no such scarecrow in your father's 

time. 
I have heard, the tongue yet quiver'd 

with the j est 
When the head leapt — so common ! 

I do think, 
To save your crown, that it must 

come to this. 
Mary. No, Renard ; it must never 

come to this. 
Renard. Not yet; but your old 

traitors of the Tower — 270 

Why, when you put Northumberland 

to death, 
The sentence having passed upon 

them all, 
Spared you the Duke of Suffolk, 

Guildford Dudley, 
Even that young girl who dared to 

wear your crown ? 
Mary. Dared ? nay, not so ; the 

child obey'd her father. 
Spite of her tears her father forced it 

on her. 
Renard. Good madam, when the 

Roman wish'd to reign, 
He slew not him alone who wore the 

purple, 
But his assessor in the throne, per- 
chance 279 
A child more innocent than Lady Jane. 
Mary. I am English Queen, not 

Roman Emperor. 
Renard. Yet too much mercy is a 

want of mercy, 
And wastes more life. Stamp out the 

fire, or this 
Will smoulder and re-flame, and burn 

the throne 
Where you should sit with Philip. 

He will not come 
Till she be gone. 

Mary, [ndeed, if that were true — 



710 



QUEEN MARY 



ACT I 



For Philip comes, one hand in mine, 

and one 
Steadying the tremulous pillars of the 

Church — 
But no, no, no ! Farewell. I am 

somewhat faint 
With our long talk. Tho' Queen, I 

am not Queen 290 

Of mine own heart, which every now 

and then 
Beats me half dead. Yet stay, this 

golden chain — 
My father on a birthday gave it me, 
And I have broken with my father — 

take 
And wear it as memorial of a morn- 
ing 
Which found me full of foolish doubts, 

and leaves me 
As hopeful. 
Benard {aside). Whew — the folly 

of all follies 
Is to be lovesick for a shadow. 

(Aloud.) Madam, 
This chains me to your service, not 

with gold, 
But dearest links of love. Farewell, 

and trust me, 300 

Philip is yours. [Exit. 

Mary. Mine — but not yet all 



Enter Usher. 
Usher. Your Council is in session, 

please your Majesty. 
Mary. Sir, let them sit. I must 

have time to breathe. 
No, say I come. (Exit Usher.) I won 

by boldness once. 
The Emperor counsell'd me to fly to 

Flanders. 
I would not ; but a hundred miles I 

rode, 
Sent out my letters, call'd my friends 

together, 
Struck home and won. 
And when the Council would not 

crown me — thought 
To bind me first by oaths I could not 

keep, 310 

And keep with Christ and conscience 

— was it boldness 
Or weakness that won there ? when I, 

their Queen, 
Cast myself down upon my knees be- 
fore them, 



And those hard men brake into wo- 
man-tears, 

Even Gardiner, all amazed, and in that 
passion 

Gave me my Crown. 

Enter Alice. 
Girl, hast thou ever heard 
Slanders against Prince Philip in our 
Court ? 
Alice. What slanders ? I, your 

Grace ? no, never. 
Mary. Nothing ? 

Alice. Never, your Grace. 
Mary. See that you neither hear 
them nor repeat ! 320 

Alice (aside). Good Lord ! but I 
have heard a thousand such — 
Ay, and repeated them as often — 

mum ! 
Why comes that old fox-Fleming back 
again ? 

Enter Renard. 
Benard, Madam, I scarce had left 
your Grace's presence 
Before I chanced upon the messen- 
ger 
Who brings that letter which we 

waited for — 
The formal offer of Prince Philip's 

hand. 
It craves an instant answer, Ay or No. 
Mary. An instant Ay or No ! the 
Council sits. 
Give it me quick. 
Alice (stepping before her). Your 
Highness is all trembling. 330 
Mary. Make way. 

[Exit into the Council Chamber. 
Alice. O Master Renard, Master 
Renard, 
If you have falsely painted your fine 

Prince, 
Praised where you should have 

blamed him, I pray God 
No woman ever love you, Master Re- 
nard ! 
It breaks my heart to hear her moan 

at night 
As tho' the nightmare never left her 
bed. 
Benard. My pretty maiden, tell me, 
did you ever 
Sigh for a beard ? 
Alice. That 's not a pretty question. 



SCENE I 



QUEEN MARY 



711 



Renard. Not prettily put ? I mean, 
my pretty maiden, 339 

A pretty man for such a pretty maiden. 
Alice. My Lord of Devon is a 
pretty man. 
I hate him. Well, but if I have, what 
then? 
Renard. Then, pretty maiden, you 
should know that whether 
A wind be warm or cold, it serves to 

fan 
A kindled fire. 
Alice. According to the song. 

His friends would praise him, I believed 
'em, 
His foes would blame him, and I scorn'd 
'em, 
His friends — as angels I received 'em, 
His foes — the devil had suborn'd 'em. 

Renard. Peace, pretty maiden. 
I hear them stirring in the Council 
Chamber. 351 

Lord Paget' s ' Ay ' is sure — who else ? 

and yet, 
They are all too much at odds to close 

at once 
In one full-throated No! Her High- 
ness comes. 

Enter Mary. 
Alice. How deathly pale ! — a chair, 
your Highness. 

[Bringing one to the Queen. 
Renard. Madam, 

The Council ? 
Mary. Ay ! My Philip is all mine. 
[Sinks into chair, half fainting. 



ACT II 

Scene I. — Alington Castle 

Sir Thomas Wyatt. I do not hear 

from Carew or the Duke 
Of Suffolk, and till then I should not 

move. 
The Duke hath gone to Leicester; 

Carew stirs 
In Devon ; that fine porcelain Courte- 

nay, 
Save that he fears he might be crack' d 

in using — 
I have known a semi-madman in my 

time 
So fancy-ridden — should be in Devon 

too. 



Enter William. 
News abroad, William ? 8 

William. None so new, Sir Thomas, 
and none so old, Sir Thomas. No 
new news that Philip comes to wed 
Mary, no old news that all men hate 
it. Old Sir Thomas would have hated 
it. The bells are ringing at Maid- 
stone. Does n't your worship hear ? 
Wyatt. Ay, for the Saints are come 
to reign again. 
Most like it is a Saint' s-day. There 's 

no call 
As yet for me ; so in this pause, before 
The mine be fired, it were a pious 

work 
To string my father's sonnets, left 
about 20 

Like loosely-scatter'd jewels, in fair 

order, 
And head them with a lamer rhyme 

of mine, 
To grace his memory. 

William. Ay, why not, Sir Thomas ? 
He was a fine courtier, he; Queen 
Anne loved him. All the women loved 
him. I loved him, I was in Spain 
with him. I could n't eat in Spain, I 
could n't sleep in Spain. I hate Spain, 
Sir Thomas. 30 

Wyatt. But thou couldst drink in 

Spain if I remember. 
William. Sir Thomas, we may grant 
the wine. Old Sir Thomas always 
granted the wine. 

Wyatt. Hand me the casket with 

my father's sonnets. 
William. Ay — sonnets — a fine 
courtier of the old Court, old Sir 
Thomas. [E.vit. 

Wyatt. Courtier of many courts, 
he loved the more 
His own gray towers, plain life, and 
letter' d peace, 40 

To read and rhyme in solitary fields. 
The lark above, the nightingale below, 
And answer them in song. The sire 

begets 
Not half his likeness in the son. I fail 
Where he was fullest. Yet — to write 
it down. [He write*. 

Re-enter William. 
William. There is news, there 1 is 
news, and no call for sonnet-sorting 
now, nor for sonnet -making either, 



712 



QUEEN MARY 



ACT II 



but ten thousand men on Penenden 
Heath all calling after your worship, 
and your worship's name heard into 
Maidstone market, and your worship 
the first man in Kent and Christen- 
dom, for the Queen 's down, and the 
world's up, and your worship a-top 
of it. 56 

Wyatt. Inverted iEsop — mountain 
out of mouse. 
Say for ten thousand ten — and pot- 
house knaves, 
Brain-dizzied with a draught of morn- 
ing ale. 

Enter Antony Knyvett. 
William. Here 's Antony Knyvett. 
Knyvett. Look you, Master Wyatt, 
Tear up that woman's work there. 

Wyatt. No ; not these, 

Dumb children of my father, that will 

speak 
When I and thou and all rebellions lie 
Dead bodies without voice. Song 

flies, you know, 
For ages. 
Knyvett. Tut, your sonnet's a fly- 
ing ant, 
Wing'd for a moment. 

Wyatt. Well, for mine own work, 

[Tearing the paper. 

It lies there in six pieces at your feet ; 

For all that, I can carry it in my head. 

Knyvett. If you can carry your head 

upon your shoulders. 
Wyatt. I fear you come to carry it 
off my shoulders, 70 

And sonnet-making 's safer. 

Knyvett. Why, good lord, 

Write vou as many sonnets as you 

will. 
Ay, but not now ; what, have you 

eyes, ears, brains? 
This Philip and the black -faced 

swarms of Spain, 
The hardest, cruellest people in the 

world, 
Come locusting upon us, eat us up, 
Confiscate lands, goods, money — 

Wyatt, Wyatt, 
Wake, or the stout old island will be- 
come 
A rotten limb of Spain. They roar 

for you 
On Penenden Heath, a thousand of 
them — more — 80 



All arm'd, waiting a leader; there's 

no glory 
Like his who saves his country. And 

you sit 
Sing-songing here ; but, if I 'm any 

judge, 
By God, you are as poor a poet, 

Wyatt, 
As a good soldier. 

Wyatt. You as poor a critic 

As an honest friend; you stroke me 

on one cheek, 
Buffet the other. Come, you bluster, 

Antony ! 
You know I know all this. I must 

not move 
Until I hear from Carew and the Duke. 
I fear the mine is fired before the 

time. 90 

Knyvett {showing a paper). But 

here 's some Hebrew. Faith, I 

half forgot it. 
Look — can you make it English ? A 

strange youth 
Suddenly thrust it on me, whisper'd, 

'Wyatt,' 
And whisking round a corner, show'd 

his back 
Before I read his face. 

Wyatt. Ha ! Courtenay's cipher. 

[Beads. 
1 Sir Peter Carew fled to France ; it 
is thought the Duke will be taken. I 
am with you still ; but, for appearance 
sake, stay with the Queen. Gardiner 
knows, but the Council are all at 
odds, and the Queen hath no force 
for resistance. Move, if you move, at 
once.' 103 



Is Peter Carew fled ? Is the Duke 

taken ? 
Down scabbard, and out sword ! and 

let Rebellion 
Roar till throne rock, and crown fall ! 

No, not that ; 
But we will teach Queen Mary how 

to reign. 
Who are those that shout below there ? 
Knyvett. Why, some fifty 

That follow'd me from Penenden 

Heath in hope 
To hear you speak. 

Wyatt. Open the window, Knyvett ; 
The mine is fired, and I will speak to 

them. in 



SCENE I 



QUEEN MARY 



7*3 



Men of Kent, England of England, 
you that have kept your old customs 
upright, while all the rest of England 
bowed theirs to the Norman, the cause 
that hath brought us together is not 
the cause of a county or a shire, but 
of this England, in whose crown our 
Kent is the fairest jewel. Philip shall 
not wed Mary ; and ye have called me 
to be your leader. I know Spain. I 
have been there with my father; I 
have seen them in their own land, 
have marked the haughtiness of their 
nobles, the cruelty of their priests. If 
this man marry our Queen, however 
the Council and the Commons may 
fence round his power with restriction, 
he will be King, King of England, 
my masters ; and the Queen, and the 
laws, and the people, his slaves. 
What ? shall we have Spain on the 
throne and in the parliament ; Spain 
in the pulpit and on the law-bench ; 
Spain in all the great offices of state ; 
Spain in our ships, in our forts, in 
our houses, in our beds ? 137 

Crowd. No ! no ! no Spain ! 

William. No Spain in our beds — 
that were worse than all. I have been 
there with old Sir Thomas, and the 
beds I know. I hate Spain. 

A Peasant. But, Sir Thomas, must 
we levy war against the Queen's 
Grace ? 145 

Wyatt. No, my friend ; war for the 
Queen's Grace — -to save her from her- 
self and Philip — war against Spain. 
And think not we shall be alone — 
thousands will flock to vis. The Coun- 
cil, the Court itself, is on our side. 
The Lord Chancellor himself is on 
our side. The King of France is with 
us ; the King of Denmark is with us ; 
the world is with us — war against 
Spain ! And if we move not now, yet 
it will be known that we have moved ; 
and if Philip come to be King, O my 
God ! The rope, the rack, the thumb- 
screw, the stake, the fire. If we move 
not now, Spain moves, bribes our 
nobles with her gold, and creeps, 
creeps snake-like about our legs till 
we cannot move at all ; and ye know, 



my masters, that wherever Spain hath 
ruled she hath wither'd all beneath 
her. Look at the New World — a 
paradise made hell ; the red man, that 
good helpless creature, starved, 
maim'd, flogg'd, flay'd, burn'd, boil'd, 
buried alive, worried by dogs ; and 
here, nearer home, the Netherlands, 
Sicily, Naples, Lombardy. I say no 
more — only this, their lot is yours. 
Forward to London with me ! forward 
to London ! If ye love your liberties 
or your skins, forward to London ! 
Crowd. Forward to London ! A 

Wyatt ! a Wyatt ! 
Wyatt. But first to Rochester, to 
take the guns 
From out the vessels lying in the 
river. 180 

Then on. 
A Peasant. Ay, but I fear we be 

too few, Sir Thomas. 
Wyatt. Not many yet. The world 
as yet, my friend, 
Is not half -waked ; but every parish 

tower 
Shall clang and clash alarum as we 

pass. 
And pour along the land, and, swollen 

and fed 
With indraughts and side-currents, in 

full force 
Roll upon London. 

Croiod, A Wyatt ! a Wyatt ! For- 
ward ! 
Knyvett. Wyatt, shall we proclaim 

Elizabeth ? 

Wyatt. I '11 think upon it, Kny vett. 

Knyvett. Or Lady Jane? 

Wyatt. No, poor soul, no. 191 

Ah, gray old castle of Alington, green 

field 
Beside the brimming Medway, it may 

chance 
That I shall never look upon you 
more. 
Knyvett. Come, now, you're son- 
netting again. 
Wyatt. Not I. 

I'll have my head set higher in the 

State ; 
Or — if the Lord God will it — on the 
stake. [TSxeunt. 



714 



QUEEN MARY 



ACT II 



Scene II 

Guildhall 

Sir Thomas White {The Lord 
Mayor), Lord William Howard, 
Sir Ralph Bagenhall, Alder- 
men and Citizens. 

White. I trust the Queen comes 

hither with her guards. 
Howovrd. Ay, all in arms. 

[Several of the citizens move hastily 

out of the hall. 

Why do they hurry out there ? 
White. My lord, cut out the rotten 

from your apple, 
Your apple eats the better. Let them 

go. 
They go like those old Pharisees in 

John 
Convicted by their conscience, arrant 

cowards, 
Or tamperers with that treason out of 

Kent. 
When will her Grace be here ? 

Howard. In some few minutes. 

She will address your guilds and com- 
panies. 
I have striven in vain to raise a man 

for her. 10 

But help her in this exigency, make 
Your city loyal, and be the mightiest 

man 
This day in England. 

White. I am Thomas White. 

Few things have fail'd to which I set 

my will. 
I do my most and best. 

Howard. You know that after 

The Captain Brett, who went with 

your train bands 
To fight with Wyatt, had gone over to 

him 
With all his men, the Queen in that 

distress 
Sent Cornwallis and Hastings to the 

traitor, 
Feigning to treat with him about her 

marriage — 20 

Know too what Wyatt said. 

White. He 'd sooner be, 

While this same marriage question 

was being argued, 
Trusted than trust — the scoundrel — 

and demanded 



Possession of her person and the 

Tower. 
Howard. And four of her poor Coun- 
cil too, my Lord, 
As hostages. 

White. I know it. What do and 

say 
Your Council at this hour ? 

Howard. I will trust you. 

We fling ourselves on you, my lord. 

The Council, 
The Parliament as well, are troubled 

waters ; 
And yet like waters of the fen they 

know not 30 

Which way to flow. All hands on her 

address, 
And upon you, Lord Mayor. 

White. How look'd the city 

When now you past it ? Quiet ? 

Howard. Like our Council, 

Your city is divided. As we past, 
Some hail'd, some hiss'd us. There 

were citizens 
Stood each before his shut-up booth, 

and look'd 
As grim and grave as from a funeral. 
And here a knot of ruffians all in 

rags, 
With execrating execrable eyes, 
Glared at the citizen. Here was a 

young mother, 40 

Her face on flame, her red hair all 

blown back, 
She shrilling 'Wyatt,' while the boy 

she held 
Mimick'd and piped her 'Wyatt,' as 

red as she 
In hair and cheek ; and almost elbow- 
ing her, 
So close they stood, another, mute as 

death, 
And white as her own milk ; her babe 

in arms 
Had felt the faltering of his mother's 

heart, 
And look'd as bloodless. Here a pious 

Catholic, 
Mumbling and mixing up in his scared 

prayers 
Heaven and earth's Maries ; over his 

bow'd shoulder 50 

Scowl'd that world-hated and world- 
hating beast, 
A haggard Anabaptist. Many such 

groups. 



SCENE II 



QUEEN MARY 



715 



The names of Wyatt, Elizabeth, Cour- 
tenay, 

Nay, the Queen's right to reign — 
'fore God, the rogues ! — 

Were freely buzz'd among them. So 
I say 

Your city is divided, and I fear 

One scruple, this or that way, of suc- 
cess 

Would turn it thither. Wherefore 
now the Queen, 

In this low pulse and palsy of the 
state, 

Bade me to tell you that she counts on 
you 60 

And on myself as her two hands ; on 
you, 

In your own city, as her right, my lord, 

For you are loyal. 

White. Am I Thomas White ? 

One word before she comes. Eliza- 
beth— 

Her name is much abused among these 
traitors. 

Where is she ? She is loved by all of 
us. 

I scarce have heart to mingle in this 
matter, 

If she should be mishandled. 
Hoicard. No, she shall not. 

The Queen had written her word to 
come to court : 

Methought I smelt out Renard in the 
letter 70 

And fearing for her, sent a secret mis- 
sive, 

Which told her to be sick. Happily 
or not, 

It found her sick indeed. 

White. God send her well ! 

Here comes her Royal Grace. 

Enter Guards, Mary and Gardiner. 
Sir Thomas White leads her to a 
raised seat on the dais. 

White. I, the Lord Mayor, and 

these our companies 
And guilds of London, gathered here, 

beseech 
Your Highness to accept our lowliest 

thanks 
For your most princely presence ; and 

we pray 
That we, your true and loyal citizens, 
From your own royal lips, at once may 

know 80 



The wherefore of this coming, and so 

learn 
Your royal will, and do it. — I, Lord 

Mayor 
Of London, and our guilds and com- 
panies. 
Mary. In mine own person am I 

come to you, 
To tell you what indeed ye see and 

- know, 
How traitorously these rebels out of 

Kent 
Have made strong head against our- 
selves and you. 
They would not have me wed the 

Prince of Spain ; 
That was their pretext — so they spake 

at first — 
But we sent divers of our Council to 

them, 90 

And by their answers to the question 

ask'd, 
It doth appear this marriage is the 

least 
Of all their quarrel. 
They have betrayed the treason of 

their hearts, 
Seek to possess our person, hold our 

Tower, 
Place and displace our councillors, and 

use 
Both us and them according as they 

will. 
Now what I am ye know right well — 

your Queen ; 
To whom, when I was wedded to the 

realm 
And the realm's laws — the spousal 

ring whereof, 100 

Not ever to be laid aside, I wear 
Upon this finger — ye did promise 

full 
Allegiance and obedience to the death. 
Ye know my father was the rightful 

heir 
Of England, and his right came down 

to me, 
Corroborate by your acts of Parlia- 
ment. 
And as ye were most loving unto him, 
So doubtless will ye show yourselves 

to me. 
Wherefore, ye will not brook that any 

one 
Should seize our person, occupy our 

state, no 



716 



QUEEN MARY 



ACT II 



More specially a traitor so presumptu- 
ous 

As this same Wyatt, who hath tam- 
per'd with 

A public ignorance, and, under color 

Of such a cause as hath no color, 
seeks 

To bend the laws to his own will, and 
yield 

Full scope to persons rascal and for- 
lorn, 

To make free spoil and havoc of your 
goods. 

Now, as your Prince, I say, 

I, that was never mother, cannot tell 

How mothers love their children ; yet, 
methinks, 120 

A prince as naturally may love his 
people 

As these their children; and be sure 
your Queen 

So loves you, and so loving, needs 
must deem 

This love by you re turn' d as heartily ; 

And thro' this common knot and bond 
of love, 

Doubt not they will be speedily over- 
thrown. 

As to this marriage, ye shall understand 

We made thereto no treaty of our- 
selves, 

And set no foot theretoward unadvised 

Of all our Privy Council ; furthermore, 

This marriage had the assent of those 
to whom 131 

The King, my father, did commit his 
trust ; 

Who not alone esteem'd it honorable, 

But for the wealth and glory of our 
realm, 

And all our loving subjects, most ex- 
pedient. 

As to myself, 

I am not so set on wedlock as to 
choose 

But where I list, nor yet so amorous 

That I must needs be husbanded ; I 
thank God, 

I have lived a virgin, and I noway 
doubt 140 

But that, with God's grace, I can live 
so still. 

Yet if it might please God that I 
should leave 

Some fruit of mine own body after 
me, 



To be your king, ye would rejoice 
thereat, 

And it would be your comfort, as I 
trust ; 

And truly, if I either thought or 
knew 

This marriage should bring loss or dan- 
ger to you, 

My subjects, or impair in any way 

This royal state of England, I would 
never 

Consent thereto, nor marry while I 
live. 

Moreover, if this marriage should not 
seem, 151 

Before our own High Court of Parlia- 
ment, 

To be of rich advantage to our realm, 

We will refrain, and not alone from 
this, 

Likewise from any other, out of which 

Looms the least chance of peril to our 
realm. 

Wherefore be bold, and with your 
lawful Prince 

Stand fast against our enemies and 
yours, 

And fear them not. I fear them not. 
My lord, 

I leave Lord William Howard in your 
city, 160 

To guard and keep you whole and 
safe from all 

The spoil and sackage aim'd at by 
these rebels, 

Who mouth and foam against the 
Prince of Spain. 
Voices. Long live Queen Mary ! 
Down with Wvatt ! 

The Queen ! 
White. Three voices from our guilds 
and companies ! 

You are shy and proud like English- 
men, my masters, 

And will not trust your voices. Under- 
stand, 

Your lawful Prince hath come to cast 
herself 

On loval hearts and bosoms, hoped to 
*fall 

Into the wide-spread arms of fealty, 

And finds you statues. Speak at once 
— and all ! 171 

For whom ? 

Our Sovereign Lady by King Harry's 
will, 



SCENE II 



QUEEN MARY 



717 



The Queen of England — or the Kent- 
ish Squire ? 

I know you loyal. Speak ! in the name 
of God ! 

The Queen of England or the rabble 
of Kent ? 

The reeking dungfork master of the 
mace ! 

Your havings wasted by the. scythe 
and spade — 

Your rights and charters hobnail' d 
into slush — 

Your houses fired — your gutters bub- 
bling blood — 180 
Acclamation. No! No! The Queen! 

the Queen ! 
White. Your Highness hears 

This burst and bass of loyal harmony, 

And how we each and all of us 
abhor 

The venomous, bestial, devilish revolt 

Of Thomas Wyatt. Hear us now 
make oath 

To raise your Highness thirty thousand 
men, 

And arm and strike as with one hand, 
and brush 

This Wyatt from our shoulders, like a 
flea 

That might Save leapt upon us una- 
wares. 

Swear with me, noble fellow-citizens, 
all, 190 

With all your trades, and guilds, and 
companies. 
Citizens. We swear ! 
Mary. We thank your lordship and 
your loyal city. 

[Exit Mary, attended. 
White. I trust this day, thro' God, 

I have saved the crown. 
First Alderman. Ay, so my Lord of 
Pembroke in command 

Of all her force be safe ; but there are 
doubts. 
Second Alderman. I hear that Gar- 
diner, coming with the Queen, 

And meeting Pembroke, bent to his 
saddle-bow, 

As if to win the man by flattering him. 

Is he so safe to fight upon her side ? 
First Alderman. If not, there's no 

man safe. 
White. Yes, Thomas White. 

I am safe enough ; no man need flatter 
me. 202 



Second Alderman. Nay, no man 

need ; but did you mark our 

Queen ? 
The color freely play'd into her face, 
And the half sight which makes her 

look so stern 
Seem'd thro' that dim dilated world of 

hers 
To read our faces ; I have never seen 

her 
So queenly or so goodly. 

White. Courage, sir, 

That makes or man or woman look 

their goodliest. 
Die like the torn fox dumb, but never 

whine 210 

Like that poor heart, Northumberland, 

at the block. 
Bagenliall. The man had children, 

and he whined for those. 
Methinks most men are but poor- 
hearted, else 
Should we so dote on courage, were it 

commoner ? 
The Queen stands up, and speaks for 

her own self ; 
And all men cry, She is queenly, she 

is goodly. 
Yet she 's no goodlier ; tho' my Lord 

Mayor here, 
By his own rule, he hath been so bold 

to-day, 
Should look more goodly than the rest 

of us. 
White. Goodly ? I feel most goodly, 

heart and hand, 220 

And strong to throw ten Wyatts and 

all Kent. 
Ha ! ha! sir; but you jest; I love it. 

A jest 
In time of danger shows the pulses 

even. 
Be merry! yet, Sir Ralph, you look 

but sad. 
I dare avouch you'd stand up for your- 
self, 
Tho' all the world should bay like 

winter wolves. 
Bagenhall. Who knows? the man 

is proven by the hour. 
White. The man should make the 

hour, not this the man ; 
And Thomas White will prove this 

Thomas Wyatt, 
And he will prove an Iden to this 

Cade, 230 



7i8 



QUEEN MARY 



ACT II 



And he will play the Walworth to 

this Wat. 
Come, sirs, we prate ; hence all — 

gather your men — 
Myself must bustle. Wyatt comes to 

Southwark ; 
I'll have the drawbridge hewn into 

the Thames, 
And see the citizens arm'd. Good 

day ; good day. [Exit White. 
Bagenhall. One of much outdoor 

bluster. 
Howard. For all that, 

Most honest, brave, and skilful ; and 

his wealth 
A fountain of perennial alms — his 

fault 
So thoroughly to believe in his own 

self. 
Bagenhall. Yet thoroughly to be- 
lieve in one's own self, 240 
So one 's own self be thorough, were 

to do 
Great things, my lord. 
Howard. It may be. 

Bagenhall. I have heard 

One of your Council fleer and jeer at 

him. 
Howard. The nursery-cocker'd 

child will jeer at aught 
That may seem strange beyond his 

nursery. 
The statesman that shall jeer and 

fleer at men, 
Makes enemies for himself and for his 

king ; 
And if he jeer, not seeing the true 

man 
Behind his folly, he is thrice the 

fool; 
And if he see the man and still will 

jeer, 250 

He is child and fool, and traitor to the 

State. 
Who is he ? let me shun him. 

Bagenhall. Nay, my lord, 

He is damn'd enough already. 

Hoicard. I must set 

The guard at Ludgate. Fare you 

well, Sir Ralph. 
Bagenhall. ' Who knows ? ' I am 

for England. But who knows, 
That knows the Queen, the Spaniard, 

and the Pope, 
Whether I be for Wyatt, or the Queen ? 

[Exeunt. 



Scene III 

London Bridge 

Enter Sir Thomas Wyatt and 
Brett. 

Wyatt. Brett, when the Duke of 

Norfolk moved against us 
Thou criedst ' A Wyatt ! ' and flying 

to our side 
Left his all bare, for which I love thee, 

Brett, 
Have for thine asking aught that I 

can give, 
For thro' thine help we are come to 

London Bridge ; 
But how to cross it balks me. I fear 

we cannot. 
Brett. Nay, hardly, save by boat, 

swimming, or wings. 
Wyatt. Last night I climb' d into 

the gate-house, Brett, 
And scared the gray old porter and 

his wife. 
And then I crept along the gloom and 

saw 10 

They had hewn the drawbridge down 

into the river. * 
Itroll'd as black as death ; and that 

same tide 
Which, coming with our coming, 

seem'd to smile 
And sparkle like our fortune as thou 

saidest, 
Ran sunless down, and moan'd against 

the piers. 
But o'er the chasm I saw Lord William 

Howard 
By torchlight, and his guard ; four 

guns gaped at me, 
Black, silent mouths. Had Howard 

spied me there 
And made them speak, as well he 

might have done, 
Their voice had left me none to tell 

you this. 20 

What shall we do ? 

Brett. On somehow. To go back 
Were to lose all. 

Wyatt. On over London Bridge 

We cannot ; stay we cannot ; there is 

ordnance 
On the White Tower and on the Dev- 
il's Tower, 



SCENE IV 



QUEEN MARY 



719 



And pointed full at Southwark. We 

must round 
By Kingston Bridge. 

Brett. Ten miles about. 

Wyatt. Even so. 

But I have notice from our partisans 
Within the city that they will stand 

by us 
If Ludgate can be reach'd by dawn 
to-morrow. 29 

Enter one of Wyatt' s men. 
Man. Sir Thomas, I've found this 
paper ; pray your worship read it ; I 
know not my letters ; the old priests 
taught me nothing. 

Wyatt {reads). ' Whosoever will ap- 
prehend the traitor Thomas Wyatt 
shall have a hundred pounds for re- 
ward.' 
Man. Is that it ? That 's a big lot 

of money. 
Wyatt. Ay, ay, my friend ; not 
read it ? 'tis not written 
Half plain enough. Give me a piece 
of paper ! 4 o 

[ Writes * Thomas Wyatt ' large. 
There, any man can read that. 

[Sticks it in Ms cap. 
Brett. But that 's foolhardy. 

Wyatt. No ! boldness, which will 
give my followers boldness. 
Enter Man with a prisoner. 
Man. We found him, your wor- 
ship, a-plundering o' Bishop Win- 
chester's house; he says he's a poor 
gentleman. 

Wyatt. Gentleman ! a thief ! Go 
hang him. Shall we make 
Those that we come to serve our 
sharpest foes ? 
Brett. Sir Thomas — 
Wyatt. Hang him, I say. 
Brett. Wyatt, but now you pro- 
mised me a boon. 
Wyatt. Ay, and I warrant this fine 

fellow's life. 
Brett. Even so ; he was my neigh- 
bor once in Kent. 
He 's poor enough, has drunk and 

gambled out 
All that he had, and gentleman he 

was. 
We have been glad together ; let him 
live. 
Wyatt. He has gambled for his 
life and lost, he hangs. 



No, no, my word's my word. Take 

thy poor gentleman ! 
Gamble thyself at once out of my 

sight, 
Or I will dig thee with my dagger. 

Away ! 60 

Women and children ! 
Enter a Crowd of Women and Chil- 
dren. 
Mrst Woman. O Sir Thomas, Sir 
Thomas, pray you go away, Sir 
Thomas, or you'll make the White 
Tower a black 'un for us this blessed 
day. He '11 be the death on us ; and 
you'll set the Divil's Tower a-spit- 
ting, and he'll smash all our bits o' 
things worse than Philip o' Spain. 69 
Second Woman. Don't ye now go to 
think that we be for Philip o' Spain. 

Third Woman. No, we know that 
ye be come to kill the Queen, and 
we '11 pray for you all on our bended 
knees. But o' God's mercy don't ye 
kill the Queen here, Sir Thomas ; 
look ye, here 's little Dickon, and little 
Robin, and little Jenny — though 
she's but a side-cousin — and all on 
our knees, we pray you to kill the 
Queen further off, Sir Thomas. 81 

Wyatt. My friends, I have not 

come to kill the Queen 
Or here or there ; I come to save you 

all, 
And I '11 go further off. 

Crowd. Thanks, Sir Thomas, we 
be beholden to you, and we '11 pray 
for you on our bended knees till our 
lives' end. 

Wyatt. Be happy, I am your friend. 

To Kingston, forward ! 

[Exeunt. 



Scene IV 

Room in the Gate-house of West- 
minster Palace 

Mary, Alice, Gardiner, Renard, 
Ladies. 

Gardiner. Their cry is, Philip 

never shall be king. 
Mary. Lord Pembroke in command 
of all our force 
Will front their cry and shatter them 
into dust. 



720 



QUEEN MARY 



ACT II 



Alice. Was not Lord Pembroke 

with Northumberland ? 
O madam, if this Pembroke should be 

false ! 
Mary. No, girl ; most brave and 

loyal, brave and loyal. 
His breaking with Northumberland 

broke Northumberland. 
At the park gate he hovers with our 

guards. 
These Kentish plowmen cannot break 

the guards. 

Enter Messenger. 
Messenger. Wyatt, your Grace, hath 
broken thro' the guards 10 

And gone to Ludgate. 

Gardiner. Madam, I much fear 

That all is lost ; but we can save your 

Grace. 
The river still is free. I do beseech 

you, 
There yet is time, take boat and pass 
to Windsor. 
Mary. I pass to Windsor and I lose 

my crown. 
Gardiner. Pass, then, I pray your 

Highness, to the Tower. 
Mary. I shall but be their prisoner 

in the Tower. 
Cries without. The traitor ! treason ! 

Pembroke ! 

Ladies. Treason ! treason ! 

Mary. Peace. 

False to Northumberland, is he false 

to me ? io 

Bear witness, Renard, that I live and 

die 
The true and faithful bride of Philip 

— A sound 

Of feet and voices thickening hither 

— blows — 

Hark, there is battle at the palace 

gates, 
And I will out upon the gallery. 
Ladies. No, no, your Grace ; see 

there the arrows flying. 
Mary. I am Harry's daughter, Tu- 
dor, and not Fear. 

[Goes out on the gallery. 
The guards are all driven in, skulk 

into corners 
Like rabbits to their holes. A gra- 
cious guard 
Truly ; shame on them ! they have 
shut the gates ! 30 



Enter Sir Robert Southwell. 
SoutJiicell. The porter, please your 
Grace, hath shut the gates " 
On friend and foe. Your gentlemen- 
at-arms, 
If this be not your Grace's order, 

cry 
To have the gates set wide again, and 

they 
With their good battle-axes will do 

you right 
Against all traitors. 

Mary. They are the flower of Eng- 
land ; set the gates wide. 

[Exit Southwell. 

Enter Courtenay. 
Courtenay. All lost, all lost, all 
yielded ! A barge, a barge ! 
The Queen must to the Tower. 

Mary. Whence come you, sir ? 

Courtenay. From Charing Cross; 

the rebels broke us there, 40 

And I sped hither with what haste I 

might 
To save my royal cousin. 

Mary. Where is Pembroke ? 

Courtenay. I left him somewhere 

in the thick of it. 
Mary. Left him and fled ; and thou 
that wouldst be King, 
And hast nor heart nor honor ! I my- 
self 
WiH down into the battle and there 

bide 
The upshot of my quarrel, or die with 

those 
That are no cowards and no Courte- 
nays. 
Courtenay. I do not love your Grace 
should call me coward. 

Enter another Messenger. 

Messenger. Over, your Grace, all 

crush'd ; the brave Lord William 

Thrust him from Ludgate, and the 

traitor flying 51 

To Temple Bar, there by Sir Maurice 

Berkeley 
Was taken prisoner. 

Mary. To the Tower with him! 

Messenger. 'T is said he told Sir 

Maurice there was one 

Cognizant of this, and party thereunto, 

My Lord of Devon. 

Mary. To the Tower with him ! 



SCENE IV 



QUEEN MARY 



721 




Gate-house, Westminster 



Courtenay. la, the Tower, the 
Tower, always the Towner, 
I shall grow into it — I shall be the 
Tower. 
Mar//. Your lordship may not have 
so long to wait. 
Remove him ! 

Courtenay. La, to whistle out my 
life, ' 60 

And carve my coat upon the walls 
again ! 

[Exit Courtenay, gua/rded. 



Messenger. Also this Wyatt did con- 
fess the Princess 
Cognizant thereof, and party 1 here- 
unto. 
Mary. What? whom — whom did 

you say ? 
Messenger. Elizabeth, 
Your royal sister. 

Mwry. T<> the Tower with her! 
My foes arc at my feet, and I am 

Queen. 
[Gardiner and her Ladies kneel to far. 



722 



QUEEN MARY 



ACT III 



Gardiner {rising). There let them 
lie, your footstool ! {Aside.) Can 
I strike 
Elizabeth ? — not now and save the life 
Of Devon. If I save him, he and his 
Are bound to me — may strike here- 
after. {Aloud.) Madam, 70 
What Wyatt said, or what they said 

he said, 
Cries of the moment and the street — 
Mary. He said it. 

Gardiner. Your courts of justice 

will determine that. 
Benard {advancing). I trust by this 
your Highness will allow 
Some spice of wisdom in my telling 

you, 
When last we talk'd, that Philip would 

not come 

Till Guildford Dudley and the Duke 

of Suffolk 77 

And Lady Jane had left us. 

Mary. They shall die. 

Benard. And your so loving sister ? 

Mary. She shall die. 

My foes are at my feet, and Philip 

King. [Exeunt. 

ACT III 

Scene I. — The Conduit in Grace- 
church 

Painted with the Nine Worthies, among 
them King Henry VIII. holding a 
book, on it inscribed * Yerbum Dei.' 

Enter Sir Ralph Bagenhall and 
Sir Thomas Stafford. 

Bagenhall. A hundred here and 

hundreds hang'd in Kent. 
The tigress had unsheath'd her nails 

at last, 
And Renard and the Chancellor sharp- 

en'd them. 
In every London street a gibbet stood. 
They are down to-day. Here by this 

house was one ; 
The traitor husband dangled at the 

door, 
And when the traitor wife came out 

for bread 
To still the petty treason therewithin, 
Her cap would brush his heels. 

Stafford. It is Sir Ralph, 



And muttering to himself as hereto- 
fore. 10 
Sir, see you aught up yonder ? 

Bagenhall. I miss something. 

The tree that only bears dead fruit "is 
gone. 
Stafford. What tree, sir ? 
Bagenhall. Well, the tree in Yirgil, 
sir, 
That bears not its own apples. 

Stafford. What ! the gallows ? 

Bagenhall. Sir, this dead fruit was 
ripening overmuch, 
And had to be removed lest living 

Spain 
Should sicken at dead England. 

Stafford. Not so dead 

But that a shock may rouse her. 

Bagenhall. I believe 

Sir Thomas Stafford ? 
Stafford. I am ill disguised. 

Bagenhall. Well, are you not in 

peril here ? 
Stafford. I think so. 20 

I came to feel the pulse of England, 

whether 
It beats hard at this marriage. Did 
you see it ? 
Bagenhall. Stafford, I am a sad 
man and a serious. 
Far liefer had I in my country hall 
Been reading some old book, with 

mine old hound 
Couch' d at my hearth, and mine old 

flask of wine 
Beside me, than have seen it; yet I 
saw it. 
Stafford. Good, was it splendid ? 
Bagenhall. Ay, if dukes, and earls, 
And counts, and sixty Spanish cava- 
liers, 
Some six or seven bishops, diamonds, 
pearls, 30 

That royal commonplace too, cloth of 

gold, 
Could make it so. 
Stafford. And what was Mary's 

dress ? 
Bagenhall. Good faith, I was too 
sorry for the woman 
To mark the dress. She wore red 
shoes ! 
Stafford. Red shoes! 
Bagenhall. Scarlet, as if her feet 
were wash'd in blood, 
As if she had waded in it. 



SCENE I 



QUEEN MARY 



7 2 3 



Stafford. Were your eyes 

So bashful that you look'd no higher ? 

Bagenhall. A diamond, 

And Philip's gift, as proof of Philip's 

love, 
Who hath not any for any, — tho' a 

true one, 39 

Blazed false upon her heart. 

Stafford. But this proud Prince — 
Bagenhall. Nay, he is King, you 

know, the King of Naples. 
The father ceded Naples that the son, 
Being a King, might wed a Queen — 

O, he 
Flamed in brocade — white satin his 

trunk-hose, 
Inwrought with silver, — on his neck 

a collar, 
Gold, thick with diamonds ; hanging 

down from this 
The Golden Fleece — and round his 

knee, misplaced, 
Our English Garter, studded with 

great emeralds, 
Rubies, I know not what. Have you 

had enough 
Of all this gear ? 

Stafford. Ay, since you hate the 

telling it. 50 

How look'd the Queen ? 

Bagenhall. No fairer for her j ewels. 
And I could see that as the new-made 

couple 
Came from the Minster, moving side 

by side 
Beneath one canopy, ever and anon 
She cast on him a vassal smile of love, 
Which Philip with a glance of some 

distaste, 
Or so me thought, return'd. I may be 

wrong, sir. 
This marriage will not hold. 

Stafford. I think with you. 

The King of France will help to break 

it. 
Bagenhall. France ! 
We once had half of France, and 

hurl'd our battles 60 

Into the heart of Spain ; but England 

now 
Is but a ball chuck'd between France 

and Spain, 
His in whose hand she drops. Harry 

of Bolingbroke 
Had holpen Richard's tottering throne 

to stand, 



Could Harry have foreseen that all our 
nobles 

Would perish on the civil slaughter- 
field, 

And leave the people naked to the 
Crown, 

And the Crown naked to the people ; 
the Crown 

Female, too ! Sir, no woman's regimen 

Can save us. We are fallen, and, as 
I think, 70 

Never to rise again. 

Stafford. You are too black-blooded. 

I 'd make a move myself to hinder 
that ; 

I know some lusty fellows there in 
France. 
Bagenhall. You would but make 
us weaker, Thomas Stafford. 

Wyatt was a good soldier, yet he 
fail'd, 

And strengthen' d Philip. 

Stafford. Did not his last breath 

Clear Courtenay and the Princess from 
the charge 

Of being his co-rebels ? 
Bagenhall. Ay, but then 

What such a one as Wyatt says is 
nothing ; 

We have no men among us. The 
new lords 80 

Are quieted with their sop of Abbey- 
lands, 

And even before the Queen's face Gar- 
diner buys them 

With Philip's gold. All greed, no 
faith, no courage ! 

Why, even the haughty prince, North- 
umberland, 

The leader of our Reformation, knelt 

And blubber' d like a lad, and on the 
scaffold 

Recanted, and resold himself to Rome. 
Stafford. I swear you do your 
country wrong, Sir Ralph. 

I know a set of exiles over there, 

Dare-devils, that would eat lire and 
spit it out 90 

At Philip's beard ; they pillage Spain 
already. 

The French King winks at it. An 
hour will conic 

When they will sweep her from the 
seas. No men ? 

Did not Lord Suffolk die like a true 



724 



QUEEN MARY 



ACT III 



Is not Lord William Howard a true 

man ? 
Yea, you yourself, altho' you are 

black-blooded ; 
And I, by God, believe myself a man. 
Ay, even in the church there is a 

man — 
Cranmer. 

Fly would he not, when all men bade 

him fly. ioo 

And what a letter he wrote against 

the Pope ! 
There 's a brave man, if any. 
Bagenliall. Ay ; if it hold. 

Crowd {coming on). God save their 

Graces ! 
Stafford Bagenhall, I see 

The Tudor green and white. {Trum- 
pets.) They are coming now. 
And here 's a crowd as thick as her- 
ring-shoals. 
Bagenliall. Be limpets to this pil- 
lar, or we are torn 
Down the strong wave of brawlers. 
Crowd, God save their Graces ! 

Procession of Trumpeters, Javelinmen, 
etc. ; then Spanish and Flemish No- 
bles intermingled, 

Stafford, Worth seeing, Bagenhall ! 
These black dog-Dons 
Garb themselves bravely. Who 's the 
long-face there, no 

Looks very Spain of very Spain ? 

Bagenliall. The Duke 

Of Alva, an iron soldier. 

Stafford. And the Dutchman, 

Now laughing at some jest ? 

Bagenhall. William of Orange, 

William the Silent. 

Stafford. Why do they call him so ? 
Bagenhall. He keeps, they say, 
some secret that may cost 
Philip his life. 

Stafford. But then he looks so 

merry. 
Bagenhall. I cannot tell you why 
they call him so. 

[TheKingand Queen pass, attended 
by Peers of the Realm, Officers of 
State, etc. Cannon shot off. 

Croicd. Philip and Mary, Philip 
and Mary ! 
Long live the King and Queen, Philip 
and Mary ! 



Stafford. They smile as if content 
with one another. 120 

Bagenhall. A smile abroad is oft a 
scowl at home. 
[King and Queen pass on. Proces- 
sion. 

First Citizen. I thought this Philip 
had been one of those black devils of 
Spain, but he hath a yellow beard. 

Second Citizen. Not red like Iscari- 
ot's. 

First Citizen. Like a carrot's, as 
thou say'st, and English carrot 's bet- 
ter than Spanish licorice ; but I 
thought he was a beast. 130 

Third Citizen. Certain I had heard 
that every Spaniard carries a tail like 
a devil under his trunk-hose. 

Tailor. Ay, but see what trunk- 
hoses ! Lord ! they be fine ; I never 
stitch'd none such. They make 
amends for the tails. 

Fourth Citizen. Tut ! every Span- 
ish priest will tell you that all Eng- 
lish heretics have tails. 140 

Fifth Citizen. Death and the devil 
— if he find I have one — 

Fourth Citizen. Lo ! thou hast 
call'd them up! here they come — a 
pale horse for Death, and Gardiner 
for the devil. 

Enter Gardiner {turning back from 
the procession.) 

Gardiner. Knave, wilt thou wear 

thy cap before the Queen ? 
Man. My lord, I stand so squeezed 

among the crowd 
I cannot lift my hands unto my 

head. 
Gardiner. Knock off his cap there, 

some of you about him ! 150 
See there be others that can use their 

hands. 
Thou art one of Wyatt's men ? 
Man. No, my lord, no. 

Gardiner. Thy name, thou knave ? 
Man. I am nobody, my lord. 

Gardiner {shouting). God's passion ! 

knave> thy name ? 
Man. I have ears to hear. 

Gardiner. Ay, rascal, if I leave 

thee ears to hear. 
Find out his name and bring it me (to 

Attendant). 
Attendant. Ay, my lord. 






SCENE I 



QUEEN MARY 



725 



Gardiner. Knave, thou shalt lose 
thine ears and find thy tongue, 
And shalt be thankful if I leave thee 
that. 

[Coming before the Conduit. 
The conduit painted — the Nine Wor- 
thies — ay ! 
But then what 's here ? King Harry 
with a scroll. 160 

Ha — Verbum Dei — verbum — Word 

of God ! 
God's passion ! do you know the knave 
that painted it ? 
Attendant. I do, my lord. 
Gardiner. Tell him to paint it out, 
And put some fresh device in lieu of 

it — 
A pair of gloves, a pair of gloves, sir; ha? 
There is no heresy there. 

Attendant. I will, my lord ; 

The man shall paint a pair of gloves. 

I am sure — 
Knowing the man — he wrought it 

ignorantly, 
And not from any malice. 

Gardiner. Word of God 

In English ! over this the brainless 

loons 170 

That cannot spell Esaias from Saint 

Paul, 
Make themselves drunk and mad, fly 

out and flare 
Into rebellions. I '11 have their Bibles 

burnt. 
The Bible is the priest's. Ay ! fellow, 

what ! 
Stand staring at me ! shout, you gap- 
ing rogue ! 
Man. I have, my lord, shouted till 

I am hoarse. 
Gardiner. What hast thou shouted, 

knave ? 
Man. Long live Queen Mary ! 

Gardiner. Knave, there be two. 
There be both King and Queen, 
Philip and Mary. Shout ! 

Man. Nay, but, my lord, 

The Queen comes first, Mary and 
Philip. 
Gardiner. Shout, then, 180 

Mary and Philip ! 

Man. Mary and Philip ! 

Gardiner. Now, 

Thou hast shouted for thy pleasure, 

shout for mine ! 
Philip and Mary ! 



Man. Must it be so, my lord? 

Gardiner. Ay, knave. 
Man. Philip and Mary. 

Gardiner. I distrust thee. 

Thine is a half voice and a lean as- 
sent. 
What is thy name ? 

Man. Sanders. 

. Gardiner. What else ? 

Man. Zerubbabel. 

Gardiner. Where dost thou live ? 
Man. In Cornhill. 

Gardiner. Where, knave, where ? 
Man. Sign of the Talbot, 
Gardiner. Come to me to-mor- 
row. — 
Rascal ! — this land is like a hill of 

fire, 

One crater opens when another shuts. 

But so I get the laws against the 

heretic, 191 

Spite of Lord Paget and Lord William 

Howard, 
And others of our Parliament, re- 
vived, 
I will show fire on my side — stake 

and fire — 
Sharp work and short. The knaves 

are easily cow'd. 
Follow their Majesties. 

[Exit. The crowd folloioing. 
Bagenhall. As proud as Becket. 

Stafford. You would not have him 

murder'd as Becket was ? 
Bagenhall. No — murder fathers 
murder ; but I say 
There is no man — there was one wo- 
man with us — 
It was a sin to love her married, 
dead 200 

I cannot choose but love her. 

Stafford. Lady Jane ? 

Crowd (going off). God save their 

Graces ! 
Stafford, Did you see her die ? 

Bagenhall. No, no ; her innocent 
blood had blinded me. 
You call me too black-blooded — true 

enough, 
Her dark, dead blood is in my heart 

with mine. 
If ever I cry out against the Pope 
Her dark, dead blood that ever moves 

with mine 
Will stir the living tongue and make 
the cry. 



726 



QUEEN MARY 



ACT III 



Stafford. Yet doubtless you can tell 

me how she died ? 209 

Bagerihall. Seventeen — and knew 

eight languages — in music 
Peerless — her needle perfect, and her 

learning 
Beyond the churchmen ; yet so meek, 

so modest, 
So wife-like humble to the trivial 

boy 
Mismatch'd with her for policy ! I 

have heard 
She would not take a last farewell of 

him ; 
She fear'd it might unman him for his 

end. 
She could not be unmann'd — no, nor 

outwoman'd — 
Seventeen — a rose of grace ! 
Girl never breathed to rival such a 

rose; 
Rose never blew that equall'd such a 

bud. 220 

Stafford. Pray you go on. 
Bagerihall. She came upon the scaf- 
fold, 
And said she was condemn'd to die 

for treason ; 
She had but follow' d the device of 

those 
Her nearest kin ; she thought they 

knew the laws. 
But for herself, she knew but little 

law, 
And nothing of the titles to the 

crown ; 
She had no desire for that, and wrung 

her hands, 
And trusted God would save her thro' 

the blood 
Of Jesus Christ alone. 

Stafford. Pray you go on. 

Bagerihall. Then knelt and said the 

Miserere Mei — 230 

But all in English, mark you ; rose 

again, 
And, when the headsman pray'd to be 

forgiven, 
Said, ' You will give me my true crown 

at last, 
But do it quickly ; ' then all wept but 

she, 
Who changed not color when she saw 

the block, 
But ask'd him, childlike, 'Will you 

take it off 



Before I lay me down ? ' ' No, madam,' 
he said, 

Gasping ; and when her innocent eyes 
were bound, 

She, with her poor blind hands feeling 
— ' Where is it ? 

Where is it ? ' — You must fancy that 
which follow'd, 240 

If you have heart to do it ! 

Crowd {in the distance). God save 

their Graces ! 
Stafford. Their Graces, our dis- 
graces ! God confound them ! 

Why, she 's grown bloodier ! when I 
last was here, 

This was against her conscience — 
would be murder ! 
Bagerihall. The ' Thou shalt do no 
murder,' which God's hand 

Wrote on her conscience, Mary rubb'd 
out pale — 

She could not make it white — and 
over that, 

Traced in the blackest text of hell — 
' Thou shalt ! ' 

And sign'd it — Mary ! 

Stafford. Philip and the Pope 

Must have sign'd too. I hear this le- 
gate 's coming 250 

To bring us absolution from the Pope. 

The Lords and Commons will bow 
down before him — 

You are of the house ? what will you 
do, Sir Ralph ? 
Bagenhall. And why should I be 
bolder than the rest, 

Or honester than all ? 

Stafford. But, sir, if I — 

And over-sea they say this State of 
yours 

Hath no more mortise than a tower of 
cards ; 

And that a puff would do it — then 
. if I 

And others made that move I touched 
upon, 

Back'd by the power of France, and 
landing here, 260 

Came with a sudden splendor, shout, 
and show, 

And dazzled men and deafen' d by some 
bright 

Loud venture, and the people so un- 
quiet — 

And I the race of murder'd Bucking- 
ham — 



SCENE II 



QUEEN MARY 



727 



Not for myself, but for the kingdom 

— Sir, 
I trust that you would fight along 
with us. 
Bagenhall. ISo ; you would fling 

your lives into the gulf. 
Stafford. But if this Philip, as he 's 
like to do, 
Left Mary a wife- widow here alone, 
Set up a viceroy, sent his myriads 
hither 270 

To seize upon the forts and fleet, and 

make us 
A Spanish province ; would you not 
fight then ? 
Bagenhall. I think I should fight 

then. 
Stafford. I am sure of it. 
Hist ! there 's the face coming on here 

of one 
Who knows me. I must leave you. 

Fare you well, 
You '11 hear of me again. 

Bagenhall. Upon the scaffold. 

[Exeunt. 



Scene II 

Eoom in Whitehall Palace 

Mary. Enter Philip and Cardinal 
Pole. 

Pole. Ave Maria, gratia plena, 

benedicta tu in mulieribus ! 
Mary. Loyal and royal cousin, hum- 
blest thanks. 

Had you a pleasant voyage up the 
river ? 
Pole. We had your royal barge, and 
that same chair, 

Or rather throne of purple, on the 
deck. 

Our silver cross sparkled before the 
prow, 

The ripples twinkled at their diamond- 
dance, 

The boats that follow'd were as glow- 
ing-gay 

As regal gardens, and your flocks of 
swans 

As fair and white as angels ; and your 
shores 10 

Wore in mine eyes the green of Para- 
dise. 



My foreign friends, who dream' d us 

blanketed 
In ever-closing fog, were much amazed 
To find as fair a sun as might have 

flash'd 
Upon their lake of Garda fire the 

Thames ; 
Our voyage by sea was all but mir- 
acle ; 
And here the river flowing from the 

sea, 
Not toward it — for they thought not 

of our tides — 
Seem'd as a happy miracle to make 

glide — 
In quiet — home your banish'd coun- 
tryman. 20 
Mary. We heard that you were sick 

in Flanders, cousin. 
Pole. A dizziness. 
Mary. And how came you round 

again ? 
Pole. The scarlet thread of Rahab 

saved her life ; 
And mine, a little letting of the blood. 
Mary. Well ? now ? 
Pole. Ay, cousin, as the heathen 

giant 
Had but to touch the ground, his force 

re turn' d — 
Thus, after twenty years of banish- 
ment, 
Feeling my native land beneath my 

foot, 
I said thereto: 'Ah, native land of 

mine, 
Thou art much beholden to this foot 

of mine, 30 

That hastes with full commission from 

the Pope 
To absolve thee from thy guilt of her- 
esy. 
Thou hast disgraced me and attainted 

me, 
And mark'd me even as Cain, and I 

return 
As Peter, but to bless thee ; make me 

well.' 
Methinks the good land heard me, for 

to-day 
My heart beats twenty, when 1 sec 

you, cousin. 
Ah, gentle cousin, since your Herod's 

death. 
How oft hath Peter knock'd at Mary's 

gate ! 



728 



QUEEN MARY 



ACT III 



And Mary would have risen and let 
him in, 40 

But, Mary, there were those within the 
house 

Who would not have it. 
Mary. True, good cousin Pole ; 

And there were also those without the 
house 

Who would not have it. 
Pole. I believe so, cousin. 

State-policy and church-policy are con- 
joint, 

But Janus-faces looking diverse ways. 

I fear the Emperor much misvalued 
me. 

But all is well ; 't was even the will 
of God, 

Who, waiting till the time had ripend, 
now 

Makes me His mouth of holy greeting. 
1 Hail, 50 

Daughter of God, and saver of the 
faith. 

Sit benedictus fructus ventris tui ! ' 
Mary. Ah, heaven ! 
Pole. Unwell, your Grace ? 

Mary. No, cousin, happy — 

Happy to see you ; never yet so happy 

Since I was crown' d. 
Pole. Sweet cousin, you forget 

That long low minster where you gave 
your hand 

To this great Catholic King. 
Philip. Well said, Lord Legate. 
Mary. Nay, not well said ; I thought 
of you, my liege, 

Even as I spoke. 

Philip. Ay, madam ; my Lord 
Paget 

Waits to present our Council to the le- 
gate. 60 

Sit down here, all ; madam, between 
us you. 
Pole. Lo, now you are enclosed with 
boards of cedar, 

Our little sister of the Song of Songs! 

You are doubly fenced and shielded 
sitting here 

Between the two most high-set thrones 
on earth, 

The Emperor's highness happily sym- 
bolic by 

The King your husband, the Pope's 
holiness 

By mine own self. 

Mary. True, cousin, I am happy. 



When will you that we summon both 
our houses 69 

To take this absolution from your lips, 

And be re-gather'd to the Papal fold ? 
Pole. In Britain's calendar the 
brightest day 

Beheld our rough forefathers break 
their gods, 

And clasp the faith in Christ ; but 
after that 

Might not Saint Andrew's be her hap- 
piest day ? 
Mary. Then these shall meet upon 
Saint Andrew's Day. 

Enter Fag~et, who presents the Council. 
Dumb shoic. 

Pole. I am an old man wearied with 
my journey, 
Even with my j oy . Permit me to with- 
draw. 
To Lambeth ? 
Philip. Ay, Lambeth has ousted 
Cranmer. 
It was not meet the heretic swine 
should live 80 

In Lambeth. 
Mary. There or anywhere, or at all. 
Philip. We have had it swept and 

garnish'd after him. 
Pole. Not for the seven devils to 

enter in ? 
Philip. No, for we trust they parted 

in the swine. 
Pole. True, and I am the Angel of 
the Pope. 
Farewell, your Graces. 

Philip. Nay, not here — to me ; 

I will go with you to the waterside. 
Pole, Not be my Charon to the 

counter-side ? 

Philip. No, my Lord Legate, the 

Lord Chancellor goes. 

. Pole. And unto no dead world, but 

Lambeth Palace, 90 

Henceforth a centre of the living faith. 

[Exeunt Philip, Pole, Paget, etc, 

Manet Mary. 

Mary. He hath awaked ! he hath 

awaked ! 
He stirs within the darkness ! 
O Philip, husband! now thy love to 

mine 
Will cling more close, and those bleak 

manners thaw, 



SCENE III 



QUEEN MARY 



729 



That make me shamed and tongue-tied 

in my love. 
The second Prince of Peace — 
The great unborn defender of the 

Faith, 
Who will avenge me of mine enemies — 
He comes, and my star rises. 100 

The stormy Wyatts and Northumber- 

lands, 
The proud ambitions of Elizabeth, 
And all her fieriest partisans — are pale 
Before my star ! 
The light of this new learning wanes 

and dies ; 
The ghosts of Luther and Zuinglius 

fade 
Into the deathless hell which is their 

doom 
Before my star ! 
His sceptre shall go forth from Ind to 

Ind! 
His sword shall hew the heretic peo- 
ples down ! no 
His faith shall clothe the world that 

will be his, 
Like universal air and sunshine ! Open, 
Ye everlasting gates ! The King is 

here ! — 
My star, my son ! 

Enter Philip, Duke of Alva, etc. 

O, Philip, come with me ! 

Good news have I to tell you, news to 
make 

Both of us happy — ay, the kingdom 
too. 

Nay, come with me — one moment ! 
Philip {to Alva). More than that ; 

There was one here of late — William 
the Silent 

They call him — he is free enough in 
talk, 

But tells me nothing. You will be, 
we trust, 120 

Sometime the viceroy of those pro- 
vinces — 

He must deserve his surname better. 
Alva. Ay, sir ; 

Inherit the Great Silence. 

Philip. True ; the provinces 

Are hard to rule and must be hardly 
ruled ; 

Most fruitful, yet, indeed, an empty 
rind, 

All hojlow'd out with stinging her- 
esies ; 



And for their heresies, Alva, they will 

fight; 
You must break them or they break 
you. 
Alva {proudly). The first. 
Philip. Good ! 
Well, Madam, this new happiness of 
mine ? [Exeunt. 

Enter Three Pages. 

First Page. News, mates ! a miracle, 

a miracle ! news ! 131 

The bells must ring ; Te Deums must 

be sung ; 
The Queen hath felt the motion of her 
babe ! 
Second Page. Ay ; but see here ! 
First Page. See what ? 

Second Page. This paper, Dickon. 
I found it fluttering at the palace 

gates : — 
'The Queen of England is delivered 
of a dead dog ! ' 
Third Page. These are the things 
that madden her. Fie upon it ! 
First Page. Ay ; but I hear she hath 
a dropsy, lad, 
Or a high-dropsy, as the doctors call it. 
Third Page. Fie on her dropsy, so 
she have a dropsy ! 140 

I know that she was ever sweet to me. 
First Page. For thou and thine are 

Roman to the core. 
Third Page. So thou and thine 

must be. Take heed ! 
First Page. Not I ; 

And whether this flash of news be 

false or true, 
So the wine run, and there be revelry, 
Content am I. Let all the steeples 

clash, 
Till the sun dance, as upon Easter 
Day. [Exeunt. 



Scene III 

Great Hall in Whitehall 

At the far end a dais. On this three 
chairs, two ><n(J<r one canopy for 
Mary and Philip, another on the 
right of tJase for Polk. Under the 
do is on Pole's side, ranged along 
the wall, sit all the Spiritual Peers, 

ond along the trail opposite <fll the 



73° 



QUEEN MARY 



ACT III 



Temporal. The Commons on cross 
benches in front, a line of approach 
to the dais between them. In the 
foreground, Sir Ralph Bagenhall 
and other Members of the Commons. 

First Member. Saint Andrew' s Day ; 

sit close, sit close, we are friends. 
Is reconciled the word? the Pope 

again ? 
It must be thus ; and yet, cocksbody ! 

how strange 
That Gardiner, once so one with all 

of us 
Against this foreign marriage, should 

have yielded 
So utterly ! — strange ! but stranger 

still that he, 
So fierce against the headship of the 

Pope, 
Should play the second actor in this 

pageant 
That brings him in ; such a chameleon 

he! 
Second Mem ber. This Gardiner turn' d 

his coat in Henry's time ; 10 

The serpent that hath slough'd will 

slough again. 
Third Member. Tut, then we all are 

serpents. 
Second Member. Speak for yourself. 
Third Member. Ay, and for Gardi- 
ner ! being English citizen, 
How should he bear a bridegroom out 

of Spain ? 
The Queen would have him! being 

English churchman, 
How should he bear the headship of 

the Pope ? 
The Queen would have it ! Statesmen 

that are wise 
Shape a necessity, as a sculptor 

clay, 
To their own model. 

Second Member. Statesmen that are 

wise 
Take truth herself for model. What 

say you ? 20 

[To Sir Ralph Bagenhall. 
Bagenhall. We talk and talk. 
First Member. Ay, and what use to 

talk? 
Philip 's no sudden alien — the Queen's 

husband, 
He 's here, and King, or will be — yet, 

cocksbody ! 



So hated here ! I watch'd a hive of 
late ; 

My seven-years' friend was with me, 
my young boy ; 

Out crept a wasp, with half the swarm 
behind. 

' Philip ! ' says he. I had to cuff the 
rogue 

For infant treason. 

Third Member. But they say that 
bees, 

If any creeping life invade their hive 

Too gross to be thrust out, will build 
him round, 30 

And bind him in from harming of 
their combs. 

And Philip by these articles is bound 

From stirring hand or foot to wrong 
the realm. 
Second Member. By bonds of bees- 
wax, like your creeping thing ; 

But your wise bees had stung him 
" first to death. 
Third Member. Hush, hush ! 

You wrong the Chancellor. The 
clauses added 

To that same treaty which the Em- 
peror sent us 

Were mainly Gardiner's : that no for- 
eigner 

Hold office in the household, fleet, 
forts, army ; 40 

That if the Queen should die without 
a child, 

The bond between the kingdoms be 
dissolved ; 

That Philip should not mix us any way 

With his French wars — 

Second Member. Ay, ay, but what 
security, 

Good sir, for this, if Philip — 

Third Member. Peace — the Queen, 

Philip, and Pole. [All rise, and stand. 

Enter Mary, Philip, and Pole. 

[Gardiner conducts them to the 
three chairs of state. Philip sits 
on the Queen's left, Pole on her 
right. 
Gardiner. Our short-lived sun, be- 
fore his winter plunge, 
Laughs at the last red leaf, and An- 
drew's Day. 
Mary. Should not this day be held 
in after years 49 

More solemn than of old ? 



SCENE III 



QUEEN MARY 



Philip. Madam, my wish 

Echoes your Majesty's. 

Pole. It shall be so. 

Gardiner. Mine echoes both your 

Graces' ; (aside) but the Pope — 

Can we not have the Catholic Church 

as well 
Without as with the Italian? if we 

cannot, 
Why, then the Pope. 

My lords of the upper house, 
And ye, my masters, of the lower 
house, 



Presenting the whole body of this 
realm 

Of England, and dominions of the 
same, 

Do make most humble suit unto your 
Majesties, 

In our own name and that of all the 
State, 

That by your gracious means and in- 
tercession 

Our supplication be exhibited 7 o 

To the Lord Cardinal Pole, sent here 
as legate 




Whitehall 



Do ye stand fast by that which ye 
resolved ? 
Voices. We do. 

Gardiner. And be you all one mind 
to supplicate 
The legate here for pardon, and ac- 
knowledge 60 
The primacy of the Pope ? 

Voices. We are all one mind. 

Gardiner. Then must I play the 

vassal to this Pole. [Aside. 

[He draws a paper from under Ms 
robes and presents it to the King 
and Queen,, who look through it 
and return it to him; then as- 
cends a tribune, and reads. 

We, the Lords Spiritual and Tem- 
poral, 

And Commons here in Parliament as- 
sembled, 



From our most Holy Father Julius, 

Pope, 
And from the Apostolic See of Rome ; 
And do declare our penitence and grief 
For our long schism and disobedience, 
Either in making laws and ordinances 
Against the Holy Father's primacy, 
Or else by doing or by speaking aught 
Which might impugn or prejudice 

the same ; 
By this our supplication promising, 80 
As well for our own selves as all the 

realm, 
That now we be and ever shall be 

quick, 
Under and with your Majesties' au- 
thorities, 
To do to the utmost all that in us lies 
Towards the abrogation and repeal 
Of all such laws and ordinances made : 
Whereon we humbly pray your Ma- 
jesties, 



73 2 



QUEEN MARY 



ACT III 



As persons undented with our offence, 
So to set forth this humble suit of ours 
That we the rather by your interces- 
sion 9 o 
May from the Apostolic See obtain, 
Thro' this most reverend father, abso- 
lution, 
And full release from danger of all 

censures 
Of Holy Church that we be fallen into, 
So that we may, as children penitent, 
Be once again received into the bosom 
And unity of Universal Church ; 
And that this noble realm thro' after 

years 
May in this unity and obedience 99 
Unto the holy see and reigning Pope 
Serve God and both your Maj esties. 
Voices. Amen. [ All sit. 

[He again presents the petition to 
the King and Queen, who hand 
it reverentially to Pole. 
Pole {sitting). This is the loveliest 
day that ever smiled 
On England. All her breath should, 

incense-like, 
Rise to the heavens in grateful praise 

of Him 
Who now recalls her to His ancient 

fold. 
Lo! once again God to this realm 

hath given 
A token of His more especial grace ; 
For as this people were the first of all 
The islands call'd into the dawning 

church 
Out of the dead, deep night of hea- 
thendom, no 
So now are these the first whom God 

hath given 
Grace to repent and sorrow for their 

schism ; 
And if your penitence be not mock- 
ery, 
O, how the blessed angels who rejoice 
Over one saved do triumph at this, 

hour 
In the re-born salvation of a land 
So noble ! [A pause. 

For ourselves we do protest 
That our commission is to heal, not 

harm ; 
We come not to condemn, but recon- 
cile ; 
We come not to compel, but call 
again ; 120 



We come not to destroy, but edify ; 

Nor yet to question things already 
done ; 

These are forgiven — matters of the 
past — 

And range with jetsam and with offal 
thrown 

Into the blind sea of forgetfulness. 

[A pause. 

Ye have reversed the attainder laid on 
us 

By him who sack'd the house of God ; 
and we, 

Amplier than any field on our poor 
earth 

Can render thanks in fruit for being 
sown, 

Do here and now repay you sixty- 
fold, 130 

A hundred, yea, a thousand thousand- 
fold, 

With heaven for earth. 

[Rising and stretching forth his 
hands. All kneel but Sir Ralph 
Bagenhall, who rises and re- 
mains standing. 
The Lord who hath redeem'd us 

With His own blood, and wash'd us 
from our sins, 

To purchase for Himself a stainless 
bride ; 

He, whom the Father hath appointed 
Head 

Of all His church, He by His mercy 
absolve you. [A pause. 

And we by that authority Apostolic 

Given unto us, his legate, by the Pope, 

Our Lord and Holy Father, Julius, 

God's Yicar and Vicegerent upon 
earth, 140 

Do here absolve you and deliver you 

And every one of you, and all the 
realm 

And its dominions from all heresy, 

All schism, and from all and every 
censure, 

Judgment, and pain accruing there- 
upon ; 

And also we restore you to the bosom 

And unity of Universal Church. 

[Turning to Gardiner. 

Our letters of commission will declare 

this plainlier. 

[Queen heard sobbing. Cries of 

Amen ! Amen ! Some of the 

Members embrace one another. 



SCENE IV 



QUEEN MARY 



733 



All but Sir Ralph Bagenhall 
pass out into the neigliboring 
chapel, whence is heard the Te 
Deum. 
Bagenhall. We strove against the 
papacy from the first, 

In William's time, in our first Ed- 
ward's time, 150 

And in my master Henry's time ; but 
now, 

The unity of Universal Church, 

Mary would have it ; and this Gardi- 
ner follows. 

The unity of Universal Hell, 

Philip would have it ; and this Gardi- 
ner follows ! 

A Parliament of imitative apes ! 

Sheep at the gap which Gardiner 
takes, who not 

Believes the Pope, nor any of them 
believe — 

These spaniel- Spaniard English of the 
time, 

Who rub their fawning noses in the 
dust, 160 

For that is Philip's gold-dust, and 
adore 

This Vicar of their Vicar. Would I 
had been 

Born Spaniard ! I had held my head 
up then. 

I am ashamed that I am Bagenhall, 

English. 

Enter Officer. 

Officer. Sir Ralph Bagenhall ! 
Bagenhall. What of that ? 

Officer. You were the one sole man 

in either house 
Who stood upright when both the 

houses fell. 
Bagenhall. The houses fell ! 
Officer. I mean the houses knelt 

Before the legate. 

Bagenhall. Do not scrimp your 

phrase, 
But stretch it wider ; say when Eng- 
land fell. i 7 o 
Officer. I say you were the one sole 

man who stood. 
Bagenhall. I am the one sole man 

in either house, 
Perchance in England, loves her like 

a son. 
Officer. Well, you one man, because 

you stood upright, 



Her Grace the Queen commands you 
to the Tower. 
Bagenhall. As traitor, or as heretic, 

or for what ? 
Officer. If any man in any way 
would be 
The one man, he shall be so to his cost, 
Bagenhall. What ! will she have my 

head? 
Officer. A round fine likelier. 

Your pardon. {Calling to Attendant. 
By the river to the Tower. 
{Exeunt. 

Scene IV 

Whitehall. A Room in the 
Palace w 

Mary, Gardiner, Pole, Paget, 
Bonner, etc. 

Mary. The King and I, my lords, 

now that all traitors 
Against our royal : state have lost the 

heads 
Wherewith they plotted in their trea- 
sonous malice, 
Have talk'd together, and are well 

agreed 
That those old statutes touching Lol- 

lardism 
To bring the heretic to the stake, 

should be 
No longer a dead letter, but re-quick - 

en'd. 
One of the Council. Why, what hath 

fluster' d Gardiner ? how he rubs 
His forelock ! 

Paget. I have changed a word with 

him 
In coming, and may change a word 

again. 10 

Gardiner. Madam, your Highness 

is our sun, the King 
And you together our two suns in one ; 
And so the beams of both may shine 

upon us, 
The faith that seem'd to droop will 

feel your light. 
Lift head, and flourish ; yet not light 

alone, 
There must be heat — there must be 

heat enough 
To scorch and wither heresy to the 

root. 



734 



QUEEN MARY 



ACT III 



For what saith Christ ? ' Compel 

them to come in/ 
And what saith Paul ? ' I would they 

were cut off 
That trouble you/ Let the dead let- 
ter live ! 20 
Trace it in fire, that all the louts to 

whom 
Their A B C is darkness, clowns and 

grooms 
May read it ! so you quash rebellion 

too, 
For heretic and traitor are all one ; 
Two vipers of one breed — an amphis- 

bsena, 
Each end a sting. Let the dead letter 
, burn ! 

Paget. Yet there be some disloyal 

Catholics, 
And many heretics loyal ; heretic 

throats 
Cried no God-bless-her to the Lady 

Jane, 
But shouted in Queen Mary. So there 

be 30 

Some traitor-heretic, there is axe and 

cord. 
To take the lives of others that are 

loyal, 
And by the churchman's pitiless doom 

of fire, 
Were but a thankless policy in this 

crown, 
Ay, and against itself ; for there are 

many. 
Mary. If we could burn out heresy, 

my Lord Paget, 
We reck not tho' we lost this crown 

of England — 
Ay ! tho' it were ten Englands ! 

Gardiner. Right, your Grace. 

Paget, you are all for this poor life of 

ours, 
And care but little for the life to 

be. 40 

Paget. I have some time, for curi- 

ousness, my lord, 
Watch'd children playing at their life 

to be, 
And cruel at it, killing helpless flies ; 
Such is our time — all times for aught 

I know. 
Gardiner. We kill the heretics that 

sting the soul — 
They, with right reason, flies that 

prick the flesh. 



Paget. They had not reach'd right 

reason, little children ! 
They kill'd but for their pleasure and 

the power 
They felt in killing. 

Gardiner. A spice of Satan, ha ! 
Why, good ! what then ? granted ! — 

we are fallen creatures ; 50 

Look to your Bible, Paget ! we are 

fallen. 
Paget. I am but of the laity, my 

lord bishop, 
And may not read your Bible, yet I 

found 
One day a wholesome scripture, ' Lit- 
tle children, 
Love one another/ 

Gardiner. Did you find a scripture, 
'I come not to bring peace but a 

sword ' ? The sword 
Is in her Grace's hand to smite with. 

Paget, 
You stand up here to fight for heresy, 
You are more than guess'd at as a here- 
tic, 
And on the steep-up track of the true 

faith 60 

Your lapses are far seen. 
Paget. The faultless Gardiner ! 

Mary. You brawl beyond the 

question ; speak, lord legate ! 
Pole. Indeed, I cannot follow with 

your Grace ; 
Rather would say — the shepherd doth 

not kill 
The sheep that wander from his flock, 

but sends 
His careful dog to bring them to the 

fold. 
Look to the Netherlands, wherein 

have been 
Such holocausts of heresy ! to what 

end? 
For yet the faith is not established 

there. 
Gardiner. The end 's not come. 
Pole. No — nor this way will 

come, 70 

Seeing there lie two ways to every 

end, 
A better and a worse — the worse is 

here 
To persecute, because to persecute 
Makes a faith hated, and is further- 
more 
No perfect witness of a perfect faith 



_„ 



QUEEN MARY 



735 



In him who persecutes. When men 

are tost 
On tides of strange opinion, and not 

tsure 
f their own selves, they are wroth 

with their own selves, 
And thence with others; then, who 

lights the faggot ? 
Not the full faith, no, but the lurking 

doubt. 80 

Old Rome, that first made martyrs in 

the Church, 
Trembled for her own gods, for these 

were trembling — 
But when did our Rome tremble ? 

Paget. Did she not 

In Henry's time and Edward's? 

Pole. What, my lord ! 

The Church on Peter's rock ? never ! 

I have seen 
A pine in Italy that cast its shadow 
Athwart a cataract ; firm stood the 

pine — 
The cataract shook the shadow. To 

my mind, 
The cataract typed the headlong 

plunge and fall 
Of heresy to the pit ; the pine was 

Rome. 90 

You see, my lords, 
It was the shadow of the Church that 

trembled ; 
Your church was but the shadow of a 

church, 
Wanting the Papal mitre. 

Gardiner {mattering). Here be 

tropes. 
Pole. And tropes are good to clothe 

a naked truth, 
And make it look more seemly. 

Gardiner. Tropes again ! 

Pole. You are hard to please. 

Then without tropes, my lord, 
An overmuch severeness, I repeat, 
When faith is wavering makes the 

waverer pass 
Into more settled hatred of the doc- 
trines 100 
Of those who rule, which hatred by 

and by 
Involves the ruler — thus there springs 

to light 
That Centaur of a monstrous Common- 
weal, 
The traitor-heretic ; — then tho' some 

may quail, 



Yet others are that dare the stake and 
fire, 

And their strong torment bravely 
borne begets 

An admiration and an indignation, 

And hot desire to imitate ; so the 
plague 

Of schism spreads. Were there but 
three or four 

Of these misleaders, yet I would not 
say no 

Burn ! and we cannot burn whole 
towns ; they are many, 

As my Lord Paget says. 

Gardiner. Yet, my Lord Cardinal — 
Pole. I am your legate ; please you 
let me finish. 

Methinks that under our Queen's regi- 
men 

We might go softlier than with crim- 
son rowel 

And streaming lash. When Herod- 
Henry first 

Began to batter at your English 
Church, 

This was the cause, and hence the 
judgment on her. 

She seethed with such adulteries, and 
the lives 

Of many among your churchmen were 

SO foul 120 

That heaven wept and earth blush'd. 
I would advise 

That we should thoroughly cleanse 
the Church within 

Before these bitter statutes be re- 
quicken'd. 

So after that when she once more is 
seen 

White as the light, the spotless bride 
of Christ, 

Like Christ himself on Tabor, possi- 
bly 

The Lutheran may be won to her 
again ; 

Till when, my lords, I counsel toler- 
ance. 
Gardiner. What, if a mad dog bit 
your hand, my lord, 

Would you not chop the bitten finger 

Off, 130 

Lest your whole body should madden 

with the poison \ 
I would not, were I Queen, tolerate 

the heretic, 
No, not an hour. The ruler of a land 



73^ 



QUEEN MARY 



ACT III 



Is bounden by his power and place to 

see 
His people be not poison'd. Tolerate 

them ! 
Why ? do they tolerate you ? Nay, 

many of them 
Would burn — have burnt each other ; 

call they not 
The one true faith a loathsome idol- 
worship ? 
Beware, lord legate, of a heavier 

crime 
Than heresy is itself ; beware, I 

say, 140 

Lest men accuse you of indifference 
To all faiths, all religion; for you 

know" 
Right well that you yourself have 

been supposed 
Tainted with Lutheranism in Italy. 
Pole {angered). But you, my lord, 

beyond all supposition, 
In clear and open day were congru- 
ent 
With that vile Cranmer in the accursed 

lie 
Of good Queen Catharine's divorce — 

the spring 
Of all those evils that have flow'd 

upon us ; 
For you yourself have truckled to the 

tyrant, 150 

And done your best to bastardize our 

Queen, 
For which God's righteous judgment 

fell upon you 
In your five years of imprisonment, 

my lord, 
Under young Edward. Who so bol- 

ster'd up 
The gross King's headship of the 

Church, or more 
Denied the Holy Father ? 

Gardiner. Ha ! what ! eh ? 

But you, my lord, a polish'd gentle- 
man, 
A bookman, flying from the heat and 

tussle, 
You lived among your vines and 

oranges, 
In your soft Italy yonder ! You were 

sent for, 160 

You were appeal'd to, but you still 

preferr'd 
Your learned leisure. As for what I 

did, 



I suffer' d and repented. You, lord 

legate 
And cardinal-deacon, have not now to 

learn 
That even Saint Peter in his time of 

fear 
Denied his Master, ay, and thrice, my 

lord. 
Pole. But not for five-and-twenty 

years, my lord. 
Gardiner. Ha ! good ! it seems then 

I was summon'd hither 
But to be mock'd and baited. Speak, 

friend Bonner, 
And tell this learned legate he lacks 

zeal. 170 

The Church's evil is not as the King's, 
Cannot be heal'd by stroking. The 

mad bite 
Must have the cautery — tell him — 

and at once. 
What wouldst thou do hadst thou his 

power, thou 
That layest so long in heretic bonds 

with me ? 
Wouldst thou not burn and blast them 

root and branch ? 
Bonner. Ay, after you, my lord. 
Gardiner. Nay, God's passion, be- 
fore me ! speak ! 
Bonner. I am on fire until I see 

them flame. 
Gardiner. Ay, the psalm- singing 

weavers, cobblers, scum — 180 
But this most noble prince Plantage- 

net, 
Our good Queen's cousin — dallying 

over-seas 
Even when his brother's, nay, his 

noble mother's, 
Head fell — 

Pole. Peace, madman! 

Thou stirrest up a grief thou canst not 

fathom. 
Thou Christian bishop, thou Lord 

Chancellor 
Of England ! no more rein upon thine 

anger 
Than any child ! Thou mak'st me 

much ashamed 
That I was for a moment wroth at 

thee. 
Mary. I come for counsel and ye 

give me feuds, 190 

Like dogs that, set to watch their 

master's gate, 



SCENE IV 



QUEEN MARY 



737 



Fall, when the thief is even within the 
walls, 

To worrying one another. My Lord 
Chancellor, 

You have an old trick of offending us ; 

And but that you are art and part with 
us 

In purging heresy, well we might, for 
this 

Your violence and much roughness to 
the legate, 

Have shut you from our counsels. 
Cousin Pole, 

You are fresh from brighter lands. 
Ketire with me. 

His Highness and myself — so you 
allow us — 200 

Will let you learn in peace and privacy 

What power this cooler sun of Eng- 
land hath 

In breeding godless vermin. And 
pray Heaven 

That you may see according to our 
sight ! 

Come, cousin. 

[Exeunt Queen and Pole, etc. 
Gardiner. Pole has the Plantagenet 
face, 

But not the force made them our 
mightiest kings. 

Fine eyes — but melancholy, irreso- 
lute — 

A fine beard, Bonner, a very full fine 
beard. 

But a weak mouth, an indetermi- 
nate — ha ? 
Bonner. Well, a weak mouth, per- 
chance. 
Gardiner. And not like thine 

To gorge a heretic whole, roasted or 
raw. 211 

Bonner. I 'd do my best, my Lord ; 
but yet the legate 

Is here as Pope and Master of the 
Church, 

And if he go not with you — 

Gardiner. Tut, Master Bishop, 

Our bashful legate, saw'st not how he 
flush'd ? 

Touch him upon his old heretical talk, 

He'll burn a diocese to prove his or- 
thodoxy. 

And let him call me truckler. In 
those times, 

Thou knowest we had to dodge, or 
duck, or die ; 



I kept my head for use of Holy 

Church ; 220 

And see you, we shall have to dodge 

again, 
And let the Pope trample our rights, 

and plunge 
His foreign fist into our island Church 
To plump the leaner pouch of Italy. 
For a time, for a time. 
Why ? that these statutes may be put 

in force. 
And that his fan may thoroughly 

purge his floor. 
Bonner. So then you hold the 

Pope — 
Gardiner. I hold the Pope ! 
What do I hold him ? what do I hold 

the Pope ? 
Come, come, the morsel stuck — this 

Cardinal's fault — 230 

I have gulpt it down. I am wholly 

for the Pope, 
Utterly and altogether for the Pope, 
The Eternal Peter of the changeless 

chair, 
Crown'd slave of slaves, and mitred 

king of kings, 
God upon earth ! what more ? what 

would you have ? 
Hence, let 's be gone. 

Enter Usher. 

Usher. Well that you be not gone, 
My lord. The Queen, most wroth at 

first with you, 
Is now content to grant you full for- 
giveness, 
So that you crave full pardon of the 

legate. 239 

I am sent to fetch you. 

Gardiner. Doth Pole yield, sir, ha V 
Did you hear 'em ? were you by ? 

Usher. I cannot tell you, 

His bearing is so courtly-delicate ; 
And yet methinks he falters ; their 

two Graces 
Do so dear-cousin and royal-cousin 

him, 
So press on him the duty which as 

legate 
He owes himself, and with such royal 

smiles — 
Gardiner. Smiles that burn men. 

Bonner, itnvill be carried. 
He falters, ha? 'fore God, we change 

and change ; 



738 



QUEEN MARY 



ACT III 



Men now are bow'd and old, the doc- 
tors tell you, 
At three-score years ; then if we 

change at all 250 

We needs must do it quickly ; it is an 

age 
Of brief life, and brief purpose, and 

brief patience, 
As I have shown to-day. I am sorry 

for it 
If Pole be like to turn. Our old friend 

Cranmer, 
Your more especial love, hath turn'd 

so often 
He knows not where he stands, which, 

if this pass, 
We two shall have to teach him ; let 

'em look to it, 
Cranmer and Hooper, Ridley and 

Latimer, 
Rogers and Ferrar, for their time is 

come, 
Their hour is hard at hand, their * dies 

Irae,' 260 

Their * dies Ilia/ which will test their 

sect. 
I feel it but a duty — you will find in 

it 
Pleasure as well as duty, worthy Bon- 
ner, — 
To test their sect. Sir, I attend the 

Queen 
To crave most humble pardon — of 

her most 
Royal, Infallible, Papal Legate-cousin. 

[Exeunt. 



Scene Y 

Woodstock 

Elizabeth, Lady in Waiting. 

Elizabeth. So they have sent poor 

Courtenay over-sea. 
Lady. And banish'd us to Wood- 
stock, and the fields. 
The colors of our Queen are green and 

white ; 
These fields are only green, they make 
me gape. 
Elizabeth. There 's white-thorn, girl. 
Lady. Ay, for an hour in May. 

But court is always May, buds out in 
masques, 



Breaks into feather'd merriments, and 

flowers 
In silken pageants. Why do they 

keep us here ? 
Why still suspect your Grace ? 
Elizabeth. Hard upon both. 

[ Writes on the window with a dia- 
mond. 

Much suspected, of me 10 

Nothing proven can be. 

Quoth Elizabeth, prisoner. 

Lady. What hath your Highness 

written ? 
Elizabeth. A true rhyme. 
Lady. Cut with a diamond ; so to 

last like truth. 
Elizabeth. Ay, if truth last. 
Lady. But truth, they say, will 
out ; 
So it must last. It is not like a word, 
That comes and goes in uttering. 

Elizabeth. Truth, a word ! 

The very Truth and very Word are 

one. 
But truth of story, which I glanced at, 

girl, 
Is like a word that comes from olden 
days, 20 

And passes thro' the peoples ; every 

tongue 
Alters it passing, till it spells and 

speaks 
Quite other than at first. 
Lady. I do not follow. 

Elizabeth. How many names, in 
the long sweep of time 
That so foreshortens greatness, may 

but hang 
On the chance mention of some fool 

that once 
Brake bread with us, perhaps ; and 

my poor chronicle 
Is but of glass. Sir Henry Beding- 

field 
May split it for a spite. 

Lady. God grant it last, 

And witness to your Grace's inno- 
cence, 30 
Till doomsday melt it ! 

Elizabeth. Or a second fire, 

Like that which lately crackled un- 
derfoot 
And in this very chamber, fuse the 

glass, 
And char us back again into the dust 



SCENE V 



QUEEN MARY 



739 



We spring from. Never peacock 

against rain 
Scream' d as you did for water. 

Lady. * And I got it. 

I woke Sir Henry — and he's true to 

you — 
I read his honest horror in his eyes. 
Elizabeth. Or true to you ? 
Lady. Sir Henry Bedingfield ! 

I will have no man true to me, your 
Grace, 40 

But one that pares his nails; tome? 
the clown ! 
Elizabeth. Out, girl ! you wrong a 

noble gentleman. 
Lady. For, like his cloak, his man- 
ners want the nap 
And gloss of court ; but of this fire he 



Nay swears, it was no wicked wilful- 
ness, 
Only a natural chance. 

Elizabeth. A chance — perchance 
One of those wicked wilf uls that men 

make, 
Nor shame to call it nature. Nay, I 

know 
They hunt my blood. Save for my 

daily range 
Among the pleasant fields of Holy 

Writ 50 

I might despair. But there hath some 

one come ; 
The house is all in movement. Hence, 

and see. {Exit Lady. 

milkmaid {singing without). 

Shame upon j r ou, Robin, 

Shame upon you now ! 
Kiss me would you ? with my hands 

Milking the cow ? 

Daisies grow again, 

Kingcups blow again, 
And you came and kiss'd me milking the 
cow. 

Robin came behind me, 60 

Kiss'd me well, I vow. 
Cuff him could I ? with my hands 

Milking the cow ? 

Swallows fly again, 

Cuckoos cry again, 
And you came and kiss'd me milking the 
cow. 

Come, Robin, Robin, 

Come and kiss me now ; 



Help it can I ? with my hands 

Milking the cow ? 70 

Ringdoves coo again, 

All things woo again. 
Come behind and kiss me milking the cow! 



Elizabeth. Right honest and red- 
cheek' d ; Robin was violent, 

And she was crafty — a sweet vio- 
lence, 

And a sweet craft. I would I were a 
milkmaid, 

To sing, love, marry, churn, brew, 
bake, and die, 

Then have my simple headstone by the 
church, 

And all things lived and ended hon- 
estly. 

I could not if I would. I am Harry's 
daughter. 80 

Gardiner would have my head. They 
are not sweet, 

The violence and the craft that do di- 
vide 

The world of nature ; what is weak 
must lie. 

The lion needs but roar to guard his 
young ; 

The lapwing lies, says 'here' when 
they are there. 

Threaten the child, ' I '11 scourge you 
if you did it ; ' 

What weapon hath the child, save his 
soft tongue, 

To say ' I did not ' ? and my rod 's the 
block. 

I never lay my head upon the pillow 

But that I think, ' Wilt thou lie there 
to-morrow ? ' 90 

How oft the falling axe, that never 
fell, 

Hath shock' d me back into the day- 
light truth 

That it may fall to-day ! Those damp, 
black, dead 

Nights in the Tower ; dead — with 
the fear of death 

Too dead even for a deathtvatch ! 
Toll of a bell, 

Stroke of a clock, the scurrying of a 
rat 

Affrighted me, and then delighted me, 

For there was life — And there was 
life in death — 

The little murder'd princes, in a pale 
light, 



74o 



QUEEN MARY 



ACT III 



Rose hand in hand, and whisperd, 

' Come away ! ioo 

The civil wars are gone for evermore ; 
Thou last of all the Tudors, come 

away ! 
With us is peace ! ' The last ? It was 

a dream ; 
I must not dream, not wink, but 

watch. She has gone, 
Maid Marian to her Robin — by and 

by 

Both happy ! a fox may filch a hen by 

night, 
And make a morning outcry in the 

yard ; 
But there 's no Renard here to ' catch 

her tripping.' 
Catch me who can ; yet, sometime I 

have wish'd 
That I were caught, and kill'd away 

at once no 

Out of the flutter. The gray rogue, 

Gardiner, 
Went on his knees, and pray'd me to 

confess 
In Wyatt's business, and to cast my- 
self 
Upon the good Queen's mercy ; ay, 

when, my lord ? 
God save the Queen ! My j ailor — 

Enter Sir Henry Bedingfield. 

Bedingjield. One, whose bolts, 

That jail you from free life, bar you 

from death. 
There haunt some Papist ruffians here- 
about 
Would murder you. 

Elizabeth. I thank you heartily, sir, 
But I am royal, tho' your prisoner, 
And God hath blest or cursed me with 

a nose — 120 

Your boots are from the horses. 

Bedingjield. Ay, my lady. 

When next there comes a missive from 

the Queen 
It shall be all my study for one hour 
To rose*and lavender my horsiness, 
Before I dare to glance upon your 

Grace. 
Elizabeth. A missive from the 

Queen ! last time she wrote, 
I had like to have lost my life. It takes 

my breath — 
O God, sir, do you look upon your 

boots, 



Are you so small a man ? Help me ! 

what think you, 
Is it life or death ? 
Bedingfield. I thought not on my 

boots ; 130 

The devil take all boots were ever 

made 
Since man went barefoot ! See, I lay 

it here, 
For I will come no nearer to your 

Grace ; 

[Laying down the letter. 
And, whether it brings you bitter news 

or sweet, 
And God hath given your Grace a nose 

or not, 
I '11 help you, if I may. 

Elizabeth. Your pardon, then ; 

It is the heat and narrowness of the 

cage 
That makes the captive testy ; with 

free wing 
The world were all one Araby. Leave 

me now, 
Will you, companion to myself, sir ? 

Bedingfield. Will I ? 

With most exceeding willingness, I 

will ; 141 

You know I never come till I be call'd. 

{Exit. 
Elizabeth. It lies there folded ; is 

there venom in it ? 
A snake — and if I touch it, it may 

sting. 
Come, come, the worst ! 
Best wisdom is to know the worst at 

once. [Beads. 

'It is the King's wish that you 
should wed Prince Philibert of Savoy. 
You are to come to Court on the in- 
stant ; and think of this in your com- 
ing. 'Mary the Queen.' 
Think ! I have many thoughts ; 152 
I think there may be bird-lime here for 

me ; 
I think they fain would have me from 

the realm ; 
I think the Queen may never bear a 

child ; 
I think that I may be some time the 

Queen, 
Then, Queen indeed ; no foreign prince 

or priest 
Should fill my throne, myself upon the 

steps. 
I think I will not marry any one, 



SCENE VI 



QUEEN MARY 



74i 



Specially not this landless Philibert 160 
Of Savoy ; but, if Philip menace me, 
I think that I will play with Phili- 
bert, — 
As once the Holy Father did with 

mine, 
Before my father married my good 

mother, — 
For fear of Spain. 

Enter Lady. 
Lady. O Lord ! your Grace, your 

Grace, 
I feel so happy. It seems that we 

shall fly 
These bald, blank fields, and dance 

into the sun 
That shines on princes. 

Elizabeth. Yet, a moment since, 
I wish'd myself the milkmaid singing 

here, 
To kiss and cuff among the birds and 

flowers — 170 

A right rough life and healthful. 

Lady. But the wench 

Hath her own troubles ; she is weep- 
ing now ; 
For the wrong Robin took her at her 

word. 
Then the cow kick'd, and all her milk 

was spilt. 
Your Highness such a milkmaid ? 

Elizabeth. I had kept 

My Robins and my cows in sweeter 

order 
Had I been such. 
Lady {slyly). And had your Grace a 

Robin ? 
Elizabeth. Come, come, you are chill 

here ; you want the sun 
That shines at court ; make ready for 

the journey. 179 

Pray God, we 'scape the sunstroke ! 

Ready at once. [Exeunt. 

Scene YI 

London. A Room in the Palace 

Lord Petre and Lord William 
Howard. 

Petre. You cannot see the Queen. 
Renard denied her 
Even now to me. 
Howard. Their Flemish go-between 



And all-in-all. I came to thank her 

Majesty 
For freeing my friend Bagenhall from 

the Tower ; 
A grace to me ! Mercy, that herb-of- 

grace, 
Flowers now but seldom. 

Petre. Only now, perhaps, 

Because the Queen hath been three , 

days in tears 
For Philip's going — like the wild 

hedge-rose 
Of a soft winter, possible, not prob- 
able, 
However you have proven it. 
Howard. I must see her. 

Enter Renard. 
Renard. My lords, you cannot see 

her Majesty. « 

Howard. Why, then the King ! for 

I would have him bring it 
Home to the leisure wisdom of his 

Queen, 
Before he go, that since these statutes 

past, 
Gardiner out- Gardiner s Gardiner in his 

heat, 
Bonner cannot out-Bonner his own 

self — 
Beast ! — but they play with fire as 

children do, 
And burn the house. I know that 

these are breeding 
A fierce resolve and fixt heart-hate in 

men 
Against the King, the Queen, the 

Holy Father, 20 

The faith itself. Can I not see him ? 

Renard. Not now. 

And in all this, my lord, her Majesty 

Is flint of flint ; you may strike fire 

from her, 
Not hope to melt her. I will give 

your message. 

[Exeunt Petre and Howard. 

Enter Philip (musing). 
Philip. She will not have Prince 

Philibert of Savoy, 
I talk'd with her in vain — says she 

will live 
And die true maid — a goodly crea- 
ture too. 
Would she had been the Queen ! yet 

she must have him. 
She troubles England ; that she 

breathes in England 



71- 



QUEKN MARY 



ACT III 



Is life and lungs to every rebel 

birth 30 

That passes out of embryo, 

Simon Renard ! — 
This Howard, whom they fear, what 

was he saying ? 
Renard. What your imperial father 

said, my liege, 
To deal with heresy gentlier. Gardi- 
ner burns. 
And Bonner burns ; and it would seem 

this people 
Care more tor our brief life in their 

wet land 
Than yours in happier Spain. 1 told 

my lord 
lie should not vex her Highness; she 

would say 
These are the means God works with, 

that His church 
May flourish. 

Pit Hi p. Ay, sir, but in statesman- 
ship 40 
To strike too soon is oft to miss the 

blow. 
Thou knowest I bade my chaplain, 

Castro, preach 
Against these burnings, 

luii a vd. And the Emperor 

Approved you, and. when last he 

wrote, declared 
His comfort in your Grace that you 

were bland 
And affable to men of all estates. 
In hope to charm them from their 

hate of Spain. 
Philip. In hope to crush all heresy 

under Spain. 
But, Renard. I am sicker staying here 
Than any sea could make me passing 

hence, 50 

Tho' T be ever deadly sick at sea ; 
80 sick am I with biding for this 

child. 
Is it the fashion in this clime for wo- 
men 
To go twelve months in bearing of a 

child 1 
The nurses yawn'd, the cradle gaped. 

they led 
Processions, chanted litanies, clashd 

their bells. 
Shot off their lying cannon, and her 

priests 
Have preach'd, the fools, of this fair 

prince to come. 



Till, bv Saint James, I find myself the 

fool 
Why do you lift your eyebrow at me 
thus? 60 

Renard, I never saw your Highness 

moved till now. 
Philip. $0 weary am 1 of this wet 
land of theirs. 
And every soul o( man that breathes 
therein. 
Renard My liege, we must not 
drop the mask before 
The masquerade is over — 

Philip. Have 1 dropt it? 

1 have but shown a loathing face to 

you, 
Who knew it from the first. 
Enter Mary, 
Mary (aside). With Renard. Still 
Parleying with Renard, all the day 

with Renard, 
And scarce a greeting all the day for 

me — 
And goes to-morrow. [Exit Mary. 

Philip {to Renard, irho advances to 
him). Well, sir, is there more ? 
Renard (who has perceived the Queen). 
May Simon Renard speak a sin- 
gle word ? 71 
Philtp, Ay. 

Renard And be forgiven for it? 

Philip. Simon Renard 

Knows me too well to speak a single 

word 
That could not be forgiven. 

Renard. Well, my liege, 

Your Grace hath a most chaste and 
loving wife. 
Philip. Why not? The Queen of 

Philip should be chaste. 
Renard. Ay. but, my lord, you 
know what Virgil sings, 
Woman is various and most muta- 
ble. 
Philip. She play the harlot ! never. 
Renard No, sire, no. 

Not dream'd of by the rabidest gos- 
peller. 80 
There was a paper thrown into the 

palace, 
1 The King hath wearied of his barren 

bride. ' 
She came upon it, read it, and then 

rent it. 
With all the rage of one who hates a 
truth 



SCENE VI 



QUEEN MARY 



743 



He cannot but allow. Sire, I would 
have you — 

What should I say, I cannot pick my 
words — 

Be somewhat less— majestic to your 
Queen. 
Philip. Am I to change my man- 
ners, Simon Renard, 

Because these islanders are brutal 
beasts V 

Or would you have me turn a sonnet- 
eer, 90 

And warble those brief-sighted eyes of 
hei 
Renard. Brief-sighted tho' they be, 
I hare seen thern, sire, 

When you perchance were trifling 
royally 

With some fair dame of court, sud- 
denly fill 

With such fierce fire — had it been fire 
indeed 

It would have burnt both speak ( 

Philip. Ay, and then ? 

Renard. Sire, might it, not be policy 
in some matter 

Of small importance now and then to 
cede 

A point to her demand ! 

Philip. Well, I am going 

Renard. For should her love when 

you are gone, my liege, 100 

Witness these papers, there will not. 
be wanting 

Those that will urge her injury — 
should her love — 

And 1 have known such women more 
than one — 

Veer to the counterpoint, and jealousy 

I lath in it an alchemic force to I 

Almost into one- metal love and hate, — 

And she impress her wrongs upon her 
Council, 

And these again upon her Parlia- 
ment — 

We are not loved here, and would be 
then perhaps 

Not so well hoi pen in our wars with 
France, no 

As else we might be — here she c 
Enter Mart. 
Mary. O Philip I 

Nay, must you go indeed V 

Philip. .Madam, I must. 

Mary. The parting of a husband 
and a wife 



Is like the cleaving of a heart ; one 

half- 
Will flutter here, one there. 
Philip. Jou say true, Madam. 

Mary. The Holy Virgin will not 
have me yet 
Lose the sweet hope that I may bear 

a prince. 
If such a prince were born, and you 
not \\(-y<: I 
Philip. I should be here if such a 

prince were born. 
Mary. But must, you go 1 
Philip. Madam, you know my 
father. I2 o 

Retiring into cloistral solitude 
To yield the remnant of his years to 

heaven, 
Will shift the yoke and weight of all 

the world 
From off his neck to mine. We meet 

at Bros* 
But since mine absence will not be for 

long, 
Your Majesty shall go to Dover with 

me, 
And wait my corning back. 

Mary, To Dover? no, 

I am too feeble. I will go to Green- 
wich, 
So you will have me with you ; and 

the- re watch 
All that is gracious in the breath of 
heaven 130 

Draw with your sails from our poor 

land and : 
And leave me, Philip, with my prayers 
for you. 
Philip. "And doubtless I shall profit 

by your pray< 
Mary. Methinks that would you 
tarry one day more — 
The news was sudden — I could mould 

myself 
To bear vour going better; will you 
dolt? 
Philip. Madam, a day may -ink or 

save a realm. 
Mary. A day m 
from breaking 
Philip. Well, Simon Renard, shall 
we Stop ;t <!., 

Renard will 

nor ire, mo 

For one day more, so far as I 
tell. 



744 



QUEEN MARY 



ACT IV 



Philip. Then one day more to please 

her Majesty. 
Mary. The sunshine sweeps across 
my life again. 
O, if I knew you felt this parting, 

Philip, 
As I do ! 

Philip. By Saint James I do protest, 
Upon the faith and honor of a Span- 
iard, 
I am vastly grieved to leave your 

Majesty. 
Simon, is supper ready ? 

Renard. Ay, my liege, 

I saw the covers laying. 
Philip. Let us have it. 

[Exeunt. 

ACT IV 

Scene I. —A Room in the Palace 

Mary, Cardinal Pole. 

Mary. What have you there ? 
Pole. So please your Majesty, 

A long petition from the foreign exiles 
To spare the life of Cranmer. Bishop 

Thirlby, 
And my Lord Paget and Lord William 

Howard, 
Crave, in the same cause, hearing of 

your Grace. 
Hath he not written himself — infatu- 
ated — 
To sue you for his life ? 

Mary. His life ? O, no ; 

Not sued for that — he knows it were 

in vain. 
But so much of the anti-papal leaven 
Works in him yet, he hath pray'd me 

not to sully 10 

Mine own prerogative, and degrade 

the realm 
By seeking justice at a stranger's hand 
Against my natural subject. King 

and Queen, 
To whom he owes his loyalty after 

God, 
Shall these accuse him to a foreign 

prince ? 
Death would not grieve him more. I 

cannot be 
True to this realm of England and the 

Pope 
Together, says the heretic. 



Pole. And there errs ; 

As he hath ever err'd thro' vanity. i 9 
A secular kingdom is but as the body 
Lacking a soul ; and in itself a beast. 
The Holy Father in a secular kingdom 
Is as the soul descending out of heaven 
Into a body generate. 
Mary. Write to him, then. 

Pole. I will. 

Mary. And sharply, Pole. 
Pole. Here come the Cranmerites ! 
Enter Thirlby, Lord Paget, Lord 
William Howard. 
Howard. Health to your Grace ! 
Good morrow, my Lord Cardi- 
nal ; 
We make our humble prayer unto 

your Grace 
That Cranmer may withdraw to for- 
eign parts, 
Or into private life within the realm. 
In several bills and declarations, 
madam, 30 

He hath recanted all his heresies. 
Paget. Ay, ay ; if Bonner have not 
forged the bills. [Aside. 

Mary. Did not More die, and Fisher ? 

he must burn. 
Howard. He hath recanted, Madam. 
Mary. The better for him. 

He burns in purgatory, not in hell. 
Howard. Ay, ay, your Grace; but 
it was never seen 
That any one recanting thus at full, 
As Cranmer hath, came to the fire on 
earth. 
Mary. It will be seen now, then. 
Thirlby. O madam, madam ! 

I thus implore you, low upon my 
knees, 40 

To reach the hand of mercy to my 

friend. 
I have errd with him; with him I 

have recanted. 
What human reason is there why my 

friend 
Should meet with lesser mercy than 
myself ? 
Mary. My Lord of Ely, this. After 
a riot 
We hang the leaders, let their follow- 
ing go. 
Cranmer is head and father of these 

heresies, 
New learning as they call it; yea, 
may God 



SCENE I 



QUEEN MARY 



745 



Forget me at most need when I forget 
Her foul divorce — my sainted mother 

— No!— 50 

Howard. Ay, ay, but mighty doc- 
tors doubted there. 
The Pope himself waver' d ; and more 

than one 
Row'd in that galley — Gardiner to 

wit, 
Whom truly I deny not to have been 
Your faithful friend and trusty coun- 
cillor. 
Hath not your Highness ever read his 

book, 
His tractate upon True Obedience, 
Writ by himself and Bonner ? 

Mary. I will take 

Such order with all bad, heretical 

books 
That none shall hold them in his 

house and live, 60 

Henceforward. No, my lord. 

Howard. Then never read it. 

The truth is here. Your father was 

a man 
Of such colossal kinghood, yet so 

courteous, 
Except when wroth, you scarce could 

meet his eye 
And hold your own; and were he 

wroth indeed, 
You held it less, or not at all. I say, 
Your father had a will that beat men 

down ; 
Your father had a brain that beat 

men down — 
Pole. Not me, my lord. 
Howard. No, for you were not here ; 
You sit upon this fallen Cranmer's 

throne ; 70 

And it would more become you, my 

Lord Legate, 
To join a voice, so potent with her 

Highness, 
To ours in plea for Cranmer than to 

stand 
On naked self-assertion. 

Mary. All your voices 

Are waves on flint. The heretic must 

burn. 
Howard. Yet once he saved your 

Majesty's own life ; 
Stood out against the King in your 

behalf, 
At his own peril. 
Mary. I know not if he did ; 



And if he did I care not, my Lord 

Howard. 
My life is not so happy, no such boon, 
That I should spare to take a heretic 

priest's, 81 

Who saved it or not saved. Why do 

you vex me ? 
Paget Yet to save Cranmer were 

to serve the Church, 
Your Majesty's I mean ; he is effaced, 
Self -blotted out; so wounded in his 

honor, 
He can but creep down into some dark 

hole 
Like a hurt beast, and hide himself 

and die ; 
But if you burn him, — well, your 

Highness knows 
The saying, ' Martyr's blood — seed of 

the Church.' 
Mary. Of the true Church ; but his 

is none, nor will be. 90 

You are too politic for me, my Lord 

Paget. 
And if he have to live so loath' d a 

life, 
It were more merciful to burn him 

now. 
Thirlby. O, yet relent ! O, madam, 

if you knew him 
As I do, ever gentle, and so gracious, 
With all his learning — 

Mary. Yet a heretic still. 

His learning makes his burning the 

more just. 
Thirlby. So worshipt of all those 

that came across him ; 
The stranger at his hearth, and all his 

house — 
Mary. His children and his concu- 
bine, belike. 100 
Thirlby. To do him any wrong was 

to beget 
A kindness from him, for his heart 

was rich, 
Of such fine mould that if you sow'd 

therein 
The seed of Hate, it blossom'd Charity. 
Pole. ' After his kind it costs him 

nothing,' there's 
An old world English adage to the 

point. 
These are but natural graces, my good 

bishop, 
Which in the Catholic garden arc as 

flowers, 



746 



OUEEN MARY 



ACT IV 



But on the heretic dunghill only 
weeds. 109 

Howard. Such weeds make dung- 
hills gracious. 
Mary. Enough, my lords. 

It is God's will, the Holy Father's will, 
And Philip's will, and mine, that he 

should burn. 
He is pronounced anathema. 

Howard. Farewell, madam, 

God grant you ampler mercy at your 

call 
Than you have shown to Cranmer. 

[Exeunt Lords. 
Pole. After this, 

Your Grace will hardly care to over- 
look 
This same petition of the foreign exiles 
For Cranmer' s life. 

Mary. Make out the writ to-night. 

[Exeunt. 

Scene II 

Oxford. Cranmer in Prison 

Cranmer. Last night I dream'd the 

fagots were alight, 
And that myself was fasten'd to the 

stake, 
And found it all a visionary flame, 
Cool as the light in old decaying 

wood ; 
And then King Harry look'd from out 

a cloud, 
And bade me have good courage ; and 

I heard 
An angel cry, ' There is more j oy in 

Heaven,' — 
And after that, the trumpet of the 

dead. 

[Trumpets without. 
Why, there are trumpets blowing 

now ; what is it ? 
Enter Father Cole. 
Cole. Cranmer, I come to question 

you again. 10 

Have you remain'd in the true Catho- 
lic faith 
I left you in ? 

Cranmer. In the true Catholic 

faith, 
By Heaven's grace, I am more and 

more confirm'd. 
Why are the trumpets blowing, Fa- 
ther Cole ? 



Cole. Cranmer, it is decided by the 
Council 
That you to-day should read your re- 
cantation 
Before the people in Saint Mary's 

Church. 
And there be many heretics in the 

town, 
Who loath you for your late return to 

Rome, 

And might assail you passing through 

the street, 20 

And tear you piecemeal ; so you have 

a guard. 

Cranmer. Or seek to rescue me. I 

thank the Council. 
Cole. Do you lack any money ? 
Cranmer. Nay, why should I ? 

The prison fare is good enough for 
me. 
Cole. Ay, but to give the poor. 
Cranmer. Hand it me, then ! 
I thank you. 

Cole. For a little space, farewell ; 
Until I see you in Saint Mary's Church. 
[Exit Cole. 
Cranmer. It is against all prece- 
dent to burn 
One who recants ; they mean to par- 
don me. 
To give the poor — they give the poor 
who die. 30 

Well, burn me or not burn me I am 

fixt; 
It is but a communion, not a mass, 
A holy supper, not a sacrifice ; 
No man can make his Maker — Yilla 
Garcia. 

Enter Yilla Garcia. 
Villa Garcia. Pray you write out 

this paper for me, Cranmer. 
Cranmer. Have I not writ enough 

to satisfy you ? 
Villa Garcia. It is the last. 
Cranmer. Give it me, then. 

[He writes. 

Villa Garcia. Now sign. 

Cranmer. I have sign'd enough, 

and I will sign no more. 38 

Villa Garcia. It is no more than 

what you have sign'd already, 

The public form thereof. 

Cranmer. It may be so ; 

I sign it with my presence, if I read it. 
Villa Garcia. But this is idle of 
you. Well, sir, well, 



SCENE II 



QUEEN MARY 



747 



You are to beg the people to pray for 

you; 
Exhort them to a pure and virtuous 

life; 
Declare the Queen's right to the 

throne ; confess 
Your faith before all hearers ; and 

retract 
That Eucharistic doctrine in your 

book. 
Will you not sign it now ? 

Cranmer. No, Villa Garcia, 

I sign no more. Will they have mercy 

on me ? . 



Villa Garcia. Have you good hopes 
of mercy ! So, farewell. 

[Exit. 

Cranmer. Good hopes, not theirs, 

have I that I am fixt, 51 

Fixt beyond fall ; however, in strange 

hours, 
After the long brain-dazing colloquies, 
And thousand-times recurring argu- 
ment 
Of those two friars ever in my prison, 
When left alone in my despondency, 
Without a friend, a book, my faith 
would seem 




Cranmer 



748 



QUEEN MARY 



ACT IV 



Dead or half-drown'd, or else swam 

heavily 
Against the huge corruptions of the 

Church, 
Monsters of mistradition, old enough 
To scare me into dreaming. 'What 

am I, 61 

Cranmer, against whole ages?' was 

it so, 
Or am I slandering my most inward 

friend, 
To veil the fault of my most outward 

foe — 
The soft and tremulous coward in the 

flesh? 

higher, holier, earlier, purer church, 

1 have found thee and not leave thee 

any more. 
It is but a communion, not a mass — 
No sacrifice, but a life-giving feast ! 
{Writes.) So, so; this will I say — 

thus will I pray. 70 

[Puts up the paper. 
Enter Bonner. 
Bonner. Good day, old friend; 

what, you look somewhat worn; 
And yet it is a day to test your health 
Even at the best. I scarce have spoken 

with you 
Since when ? — your degradation. At 

your trial 
Never stood up a bolder man than 

you; 
You would not cap the Pope's com- 
missioner — 
Your learning, and your stoutness, 

and your heresy, 
Dumbfounded half of us. So, after 

that, 
We had to dis-archbishop and unlord, 
And make you simple Cranmer once 

again. 
The common barber dipt your hair, 

and I 
Scraped from your finger-points the 

holy oil ; 
And worse than all, you had to kneel 

to me ; 
Which was not pleasant for you, Mas- 
ter Cranmer. 
Now you, that would not recognize 

the Pope, 5 ' 
And you, that would not own the 

Real Presence, 
Have found a real presence in the 

stake, 



Which frights you back into the an- 
cient faith ; 

And so you have recanted to the 
Pope. 

How are the mighty fallen, Master 
Cranmer ! 90 

Cranmer. You have been more 
fierce against the Pope than I ; 

But why fling back the stone he strikes 
me with ? [Aside. 

Bonner, if I ever did you kindness — 
Power hath been given you to try 

faith by fire — 

Pray you, remembering how your- 
self have changed, 

Be somewhat pitiful, after I have 
gone, 

To the poor flock — to women and to 
children — 

That when I was archbishop held with 
me. 
Bonner. Ay — gentle as they call 
you — live or die ! 

Pitiful to this pitiful heresy ? 100 

1 must obey the Queen and Council, 

man. 
Win thro' this day with honor to your- 
self, 
And I '11 say something for you — so 
— good-bye. [Exit. 

Cranmer. This hard coarse man of 
old hath crouch' d to me 
Till I myself was half ashamed for 
him. 

Enter Thirlby. 
Weep not, good Thirlby. 

Thirlby. O, my lord, my lord ! 

My heart is no such block as Bonner's 

is: 
Who would not weep ? 

Cranmer. Why do you so my -lord 
me, 
Who am disgraced ? 

Thirlby. On earth ; but saved in 
heaven 
By your recanting. 

Cranmer. Will they burn me, 

Thirlby? 
Thirlby. Alas ! they will ! these 
burnings will not help * 

The purpose of the faith ; but my 

poor voice 
Against them is a whisper to the roar 
Of a spring-tide. 

Cramner. And they will surely 

burn me ? 



SCENE III 



QUEEN MARY 



749 



Thirlby. Ay ; and besides will have 

you in the church 
Repeat your recantation in the ears 
Of all men, to the saving of their souls, 
Before your execution. May God 

help you 
Thro' that hard hour ! 

Cranmer. And may God bless you, 

Thirlby ! 
Well, they shall hear my recantation 

there. [Exit Thirlby. 

Disgrac'd, dishonor'd ! — not by them, 

indeed, 121 

By mine own self — by mine own 

hand ! 

thin-skinn'd hand and jutting veins, 

't was you 
That sign'd the burning of poor Joan 

of Kent ; 
But then she was a witch. You have 

written much, 
But you were never raised to plead 

for Frith, 
Whose dogmas I have reach'd. He 

was deliver' d 
To the secular arm to burn ; and three 

was Lambert ; 
Who can foresee himself ? truly these 

burnings, 
As Thirlby says, are profitless to the 

burners, 130 

And help the other side. You shall 

burn too, 
Burn first when I am burnt. 
Fire — inch by inch to die in agony ! 

Latimer 
Had a brief end — not Ridley. Hooper 

burn'd 
Three-quarters of an hour. Will my 

fagots 
Be wet as his were ? It is a day of 

rain. 

1 will not muse upon it. 

My fancy takes the burner's part, and 

makes 
The fire seem even crueller than it 

is. 
No, I not doubt that God will give me 

strength, 140 

Albeit I have denied Him. 

Enter Soto and Villa Garcia. 
Villa Garcia. We are ready 

To take you to Saint Mary's, Master 

Cranmer. 
Cranmer. And I. Lead on ; ye loose 

me from my bonds. [Exeunt. 



Scene III 

St. Mary's Church 

Cole in the Pulpit, Lord Williams 
of Thame presiding. Lord Wil- 
liam Howard, Lord Paget, and 
others. Cranmer enters between 
Soto and Villa Garcia, and the 
whole Choir strike up, ' Nunc Dimit- 
tis/ Cranmer is set upon a Scaffold 
before the people. 

Cole. Behold him — 
[A pause : people in the foreground. 
People. O, unhappy sight ! 
First Protestant. See how the tears 

run down his fatherly face. 
Second Protestant. James, didst thou 
ever see a carrion crow 
Stand watching a sick beast before he 
dies? 
First Protestant. Him perch'd up 
there ? I wish some thunderbolt 
Would make this Cole a cinder, pulpit 
and all. 
Cole. Behold him, brethren ; he hath 
cause to weep ! — 
So have we all. Weep with him if ye 

will, 
Yet— 10 

It is expedient for one man to die, 
Yea, for the people, lest the people 

die. 
Yet wherefore should he die that hath 

return' d 
To the one Catholic Universal Church, 
Repentant of his errors ? 

Protestant Murmurs. Ay, tell us 

that. 
Cole. Those of the wrong side will 
despise the man, 
Deeming him one that thro' the fear 

of death 
Gave up his cause, except he seal his 

faith 
In sight of all with flaming martyr- 
dom. 
Cranmer. Ay. 20 

Cole. Ye hear him, and albeit there 
may seem 
According to the canons pardon due 
To him that so repents, yet are there 

causes 
Wherefore our Queen and Council at 
this time 



75° 



QUEEN MARY 



ACT IV 



Adjudge him to the death. He hath 
been a traitor, 

A shaker and confounder of the realm ; 

And when the King's divorce was 
sued at Rome, 

He here, this heretic metropolitan, 

As if he had been the Holy Father, sat 

And judged it. Did I call him here- 
tic ? 30 

A huge heresiarch? never was it 
known 

That any man so writing, preaching 
so, 

So poisoning the Church, so long con- 
tinuing, 

Hath found his pardon ; therefore he 
must die, 

For warning and example. 

Other reasons 

There be for this man's ending, which 
our Queen 

And Council at this present deem it 
not 

Expedient to be known. 

Protectant Murmurs. I warrant 

you. 
Cole. Take therefore, all, example 
by this man, 

For if our Holy Queen not pardon 
him, 40 

Much less shall others in like cause 
escape, 

That all of you, the highest as the 
lowest, 

May learn there is no power against 
the Lord. 

There stands a man, once of so high 
degree, 

Chief prelate of our Church, arch- 
bishop, first 

In Council, second person in the 
realm, 

Friend for so long time of a mighty 
King ; 

And now ye see downfallen and de- 
based 

From councillor to caitiff — fallen so 
low, 

The leprous flutterings of the byway, 
scum 50 

And offal of the city, would not 
change 

Estates with him ; in brief, so miser- 
able 

There is no hope of better left for him, 

No place for worse. 



Yet, Cranmer, be thou glad. 

This is the work of God. He is glo- 
rified 

In thy conversation ; lo ! thou art re- 
claim' d ; 

He brings thee home ; nor fear but 
that to-day 

Thou shalt receive the penitent thief's 
award, 

And be with Christ the Lord in Para- 
dise. 

Remember how God made the fierce 
fire seem 60 

To those three children like a pleasant 
dew. 

Remember, too, 

The triumph of Saint Andrew on his 
cross, 

The patience of Saint Lawrence in the 
fire. 

Thus, if thou call on God and all the 
Saints 

God will beat down the fury of the 
flame, 

Or give thee saintly strength to un- 
dergo. 

And for thy soul shall masses here be 
sung 

By every priest in Oxford. Pray for 
him. 
Cranmer. Ay, one and all, dear 
brothers, pray for me ; 70 

Pray with one breath, one heart, one 
soul for me. 
Cole. And now, lest any one among 
you doubt 

The man's conversation and remorse 
of heart, 

Yourselves shall hear him speak. 
Speak, Master Cranmer, 

Fulfil your promise made me, and pro- 
claim 

Ycur true undoubted faith, that all 
may hear. 
Cranmer. And that I will. O God, 
Father of Heaven ! 

O Son of God, Redeemer of the world ! 

Holy Ghost, proceeding from them 

both! 
Three persons and one God, have 

mercy on me, 80 

Most miserable sinner, wretched man ! 

1 have offended against heaven and 

earth 
More grievously than anv tongue can 
tell. 



SCENE III 



QUEEN MARY 



75i 



Then whither should I flee for any 
help? 

I am ashamed to lift my eyes to hea- 
ven, 

And I can find no refuge upon earth. 

Shall I despair then ? — God forbid ! 
O God, 

For Thou art merciful, refusing none 

That come to Thee for succor, unto 
Thee, 

Therefore, I come ; humble myself to 
Thee ; 9° 

Saying, O Lord God, although my 
sins be great, 

For Thy great mercy have mercy ! O 
God the Son, 

Not for slight faults alone, when Thou 
becamest 

Man in the flesh, was the great mys- 
tery wrought ; 

O God the Father, not for little sins 

Didst Thou yield up Thy Son to 
human death ! 

But for the greatest sin that can be 
sinn'd, 

Yea, even such as mine, incalculable, 

Unpardonable, — sin against the light, 

The truth of God, which I had proven 
and known. 100 

Thy mercy must be greater than all 
sin. 

Forgive me, Father, for no merit of 
mine, 

But that Thy name by man be glori- 
fied, 

And Thy most blessed Son's, who died 
for man. 

Good people, every man at time of 
death 

Would fain set forth some saying that 
may live 

After his death and better humankind ; 

For death gives life's last word a 
power to live, 

And, like the stone-cut epitaph, re- 
main 

After the vanish'd voice, and speak to 
men. no 

God grant me grace to glorify my 
God! 

And first I say it is a grievous case, 

Many so dote upon this bubble world, 

Whose colors in a moment break and 

fly, 

They care for nothing else. What 
saith Saint John ? 



'Love of this world is hatred against 

God.' 
Again, I pray you all that, next to 

God, 
You do unmurmuringly and willingly 
Obey your King and Queen, and not 

for dread 
Of these alone, but from the fear of 

Him 120 

Whose ministers they be to govern you. 
Thirdly, I pray you all to live together 
Like brethren ; yet what hatred Chris- 
tian men 
Bear to each other, seeming not as 

brethren, 
But mortal foes ! But do you good to 

all 
As much as in you lieth. Hurt no man 

more 
Than you would harm your loving 

natural brother 
Of the same roof, same breast. If any 

do, 
Albeit he think himself at home with 

God, 
Of this be sure, he is whole worlds 

away. 130 

Protestant Murmurs. What sort of 

brothers then be those that lust 
To burn each other ? 

Williams. Peace among you, there ! 
Cranmer. Fourthly, to those that 

own exceeding wealth, 
Remember that sore saying spoken 

once 
By Him that was the truth, ' How hard 

it is 
For the rich man to enter into heaven ! ' 
Let all rich men remember that hard 

word. 
I have not time for more ; if ever, now 
Let them flow forth in charity, seeing 

now 
The poor so many, and all food so 

dear. 140 

Long have I lain in prison, yet have 

heard 
Of all their wretchedness. Give to the 

poor, 
Ye give to God. He is with us in the 

poor. 
And now, and forasmuch as I have 

come 
To the last end of life, and thereupon 
Hangs all my past, and all my life to 

be, 



75 2 



QUEEN MARY 



ACT IV 



Either to live with Christ in heaven 

with joy, 
Or to be still in pain with devils in 

hell; 
And, seeing in a moment I shall find 
[Pointing upwards. 
Heaven or else hell ready to swallow 
me, 150 

[Pointing downwards. 
I shall declare to you my very faith 
Without all color. 

Cole. Hear him, my good brethren. 
Cranmer. I do believe in God, Fa- 
ther of all ; 
In every article of the Catholic faith, 
And every syllable taught us by our 

Lord, 
His prophets, and apostles, in the 

Testaments, 
Both Old and New. 

Cole. Be plainer, Master Cranmer. 
Cranmer. And now I come to the 
great cause that weighs 
Upon my conscience more than any- 
thing 159 
Or said or done in all my life by me ; 
For there be writings I have set abroad 
Against the truth I knew within my 

heart, 
Written for fear of death, to save my 

life, 
If that might be; the papers by my 

hand 
Sign'd since my degradation — by this 
hand 

[Holding out his right hand. 
Written and sign'd — I here renounce 

them all ; 
And, since my hand offended, having 

written 
Against my heart, my hand shall first 

be burnt, 
So I may come to the fire. 

[Dead silence. 
Protestant Murmurs. 
First Protestant. I knew it would 

be so. 
Second Protestant. Our prayers are 
heard ! 1?0 

Third Protestant. God bless him ! 
Catholic Murmurs. 
Out upon him ! out upon him ! 
Liar ! dissembler ! traitor ! to the fire ! 
Williams {raising Ms voice). You 
know that you recanted all you 
said 



Touching the sacrament in that same 
book 

You wrote against my Lord of Win- 
chester ; 

Dissemble not ; play the plain Chris- 
tian man. 
Cranmer. Alas, my lord, 

I have been a man loved plainness all 
my life ; 

I did dissemble, but the hour has come 

For utter truth and plainness ; where- 
fore, I say, 180 

I hold by all I wrote within that book. 

Moreover, 

As for the Pope, I count him Anti- 
christ, 

With all his devil's doctrines, and re- 
fuse, 

Reject him, and abhor him. I have 
said. 
[Cries on all sides. ' Pull him down ! 

Away with him ! ' 
Cole. Ay, stop the heretic's mouth ! 

Hale him away ! 
Williams. Harm him not, harm him 
not ! have him to the fire ! 
[Cranmer goes out between Two 
Friars, smiling; hands are 
reached to him from the crowd. 
Lord William Howard and Lord 
Paget are left alone in the 
church. 
Paget. The nave and aisles all empty 
as a fool's jest ! 

No, here's Lord William Howard. 
What, my lord, 190 

You have not gone to see the burning ? 
Hoicard. Fie ! 

To stand at ease, and stare as at a 
show, 

And watch a good man burn. Never 
again. 

I saw the deaths of Latimer and Rid- 
ley. 

Moreover, tho' a Catholic, I would not, 

For the pure honor of our common 
nature, 

Hear what I might — another recanta- 
tion 

Of Cranmer at the stake. 
Paget. You 'd not hear that. 

He pass'd out smiling, and he walk'd 
upright ; 

His eye was like a soldier's, whom the 
general 200 

He looks to and he leans on as his God, 



SCENE III 



QUEEN MARY 



753 



Hath rated for some backwardness and 
bidden him 

Charge one against a thousand, and 
the man 

Hurls his soil'd life against the pikes 
and dies. 
Howard. Yet that he might not after 
all those papers 

Of recantation yield again, who 
knows ? 
Paget. Papers of recantation ! Think 
you then 

That Cranmer read all papers that he 
sign'd ? 

Or sign'd all those they tell us that he 
sign'd ? 

Nay, I trow not; and you shall see, 
my Lord, 210 

That howsoever hero-like the man 

Dies in the fire, this Bonner or an- 
other 

Will in some lying fashion misreport 

His ending to the glory of their church. 

And you saw Latimer and Ridley die ? 

Latimer was eighty, was he not ? his 
best 

Of life was over then. 
Howard. His eighty years 

Look'd somewhat crooked on him in 
his frieze ; 

But after they had stript him to his 
shroud, 

He stood upright, a lad of twenty- 
one, 220 

And gather'd with his hands the start- 
ing flame, 

And wash'd his hands and all his face 
therein, 

Until the powder suddenly blew him 
dead. 

Ridley was longer burning ; but he 
died 

As manfully and boldly, and, 'fore 
God, 

I know them heretics, but right Eng- 
lish ones. 

If ever, as heaven grant, we clash with 
Spain, 

Our Ridley-soldiers and our Latimer- 
sailors 

Will teach her something. 
Paget. Your mild legate Pole 

Will tell you that the devil helpt them 
thro' it. 230 

[A murmur of the Crowd in the dis- 
tance. 



Hark, how those Roman wolf-dogs 
howl and bay him ! 
Howard. Might it not be the other 
side rejoicing 

In his brave end ? 

Paget. They are too crush'd, too 
broken, 

They can but weep in silence. 

Howard. Ay, ay, Paget, 

They have brought it in large measure 
on themselves. 

Have I not heard them mock the 
blessed Host 

In songs so lewd the beast might roar 
his claim 

To being in God's image, more than 
they? 

Have I not seen the gamekeeper, the 
groom, 

Gardener, and huntsman, in the par- 
son's place, 240 

The parson from his own spire swung 
out dead, 

And Ignorance crying in the streets, 
and all men 

Regarding her ? I say they have drawn 
the fire 

On their own heads ; yet, Paget, I do 
hold 

The Catholic, if he have the greater 
right, 

Hath been the crueller. 

Paget. Action and reaction, 

The miserable see-saw of our child- 
world, 

Make us despise it at odd hours, my 
lord. 

Heaven help that this reaction not re- 
act 249 

Yet fiercelier under Queen Elizabeth 

So that she come to rule us. 
Hoicard. The world 's mad. 

Paget. My Lord, the world is like a 
drunken man, 

Who cannot move straight to his end, 
but reels 

Now to the right, then as far to the 
left, 

Push'd by the crowd beside — and un- 
derfoot 

An earthquake ; for since Henry for a 
doubt — 

Which a young lust had clapt upon 
the back, 

Crying, ' Forward ! ' — set our old 
church rocking, men 



754 



QUEEN MARY 



ACT IV 



Have hardly known what to believe, 

or whether 
They should believe in anything ; the 

currents 260 

So shift and change, they see not how 

they are borne, 
Nor whither. I conclude the King a 

beast ; 
Verily a lion if you will — the world 
A most obedient beast and fool — my- 
self 
Half beast and fool as appertaining 

to it ; 
Altho' your lordship hath as little of 

each 
Cleaving to your original Adam-clay 
As may be consonant with mortal- 
ity. 
Howard. We talk and Cranmer 

suffers. 
The kindliest man I ever knew ; see, 

see, 270 

I speak of him in the past. Unhappy 

land! 
Hard-natured Queen, half-Spanish in 

herself, 
And grafted on the hard-grain'd stock 

of Spain — 
Her life, since Philip left her, and she 

lost 
Her fierce desire of bearing him a 

child, 
Hath, like a brief and bitter winter's 

day, 
Gone narrowing down and darkening 

to a close. 
There will be more conspiracies, I 

fear. 
Paget. Ay, ay, beware of France. 
Howard. O Paget, Paget ! 

I have seen heretics of the poorer 

sort, 280 

Expectant of the rack from day to 

day, 
To whom the fire were welcome, lying 

chain'd 
In breathless dungeons over steaming 

sewers, 
Fed with rank bread that crawl'd 

upon the tongue, 
And putrid water, every drop a 

worm, 
Until they died of rotted limbs ; and 

then 
Cast on the dunghill naked, and be- 
come 



Hideously alive again from head to 

heel, 
Made even the carrion-nosing mongrel 

vomit 
With hate and horror. 

Paget. Nay, you sicken me 

To hear you. 

Howard. Fancy-sick ; these things 

are done, 291 

Done right against the promise of this 

Queen 
Twice given. 

Paget. No faith with heretics, my 
lord ! 
Hist ! there be two old gossips — gos- 
pellers, 
I take it ;* stand behind the pillar here ; 
I warrant you they talk about the 

burning. 
Enter Two Old Women. Joan, and 
after her Tib. 

Joan. Why, it be Tib ! 

Tib. I cum behind tha, gall, and 
couldn't make tha hear. Eh, the 
wind and the wet ! What a day, 
what a day! nigh upo' judgment 
daay loike. Pwoaps be pretty things, 
Joan, but they wunt set i' the Lord's 
cheer o' that daay. 304 

Joan. I must set down myself, Tib ; 
it be a var waay vor my owld legs up 
vro' Islip. Eh, my rheumatizy be 
that bad howiver be I to win to the 
burnin' ? 

Tib. I should saay 't wur ower by 
now. I 'd ha' been here avore, but 
Dumble wur blow'd wi' the wind, 
and Dumble 's the best milcher in 
Islip. 314 

Joan. Our Daisy 's as good 'z her. 

Tib. Noa, Joan. 

Joan. Our Daisy's butter 's as good 
'z hern. 

Tib. Noa, Joan. 

Joan. Our Daisy's cheeses be better. 

Tib. Noa, Joan. 

Joan. Eh, then ha' thy waay wi' 
me, Tib ; ez thou hast wi' thy owld 
man. 324 

Tib. Ay, Joan, and my owld man 
wur up and awaay betimes wi' dree 
hard eggs for a good pleace at the 
burnin' ; and barrin' the wet, Hodge 
'ud ha' been a-harrowin' o' white 
peasen i' the outfield — and barrin' the 
wind, Dumble wur blow'd wi' the 



SCENE III 



QUEEN MARY 



755 



wind, so 'z we was forced to stick 
her, but we fetched her round at last. 
Thank the Lord therevore. Dumble 's 
the best milcher in Islip. 335 

Joan. Thou 's thy way wi' man and 
beast, Tib. I wonder at tha, it beats 
me ! Eh, but I do know ez Pwoaps 
and vires be bad things ; tell 'ee now, 
I heerd summat as summun towlcl 
summun o' owld Bishop Gardiner's 
end ; there wur an owld lord a-cum to 
dine wi' un, and a wur so owld a 
couldn't bide vor his dinner, but a 
had to bide howsomiver, vor ' I wunt 
dine,' says my Lord Bishop, says he, 
* not till I hears ez Latimer and Ridley 
be a-vire ; ' and so they bided on and 
on till vour o' the clock, till his man 
cum in post vro' here, and tells un ez 
the vire has tuk holt. 'Now/ says 
the Bishop, says he, ' we '11 gwo to 
dinner ; ' and the owld lord fell to 's 
meat wi' a will, God bless un ! but 
Gardiner wur struck down like by 
the hand o' God avore a could taste a 
mossel, and a set un all a-vire, so 'z 
the tongue on un cum a-lolluping out 
o' 'is mouth as black as a rat. Thank 
the Lord therevore ! 360 

Paget. The fools ! 

Tib. Ay, Joan ; and Queen Mary 
gwoes on a-burnin' and a-burnin', to 
get her baaby born ; but all her burn- 
ing 'ill never burn out the hypocrisy 
that makes the water in her. There 's 
nought but the vire of God's hell ez 
can burn out that. 

Joan. Thank the Lord therevore ! 

Paget. The fools ! 370 

Tib. A-burnin', and a-burnin', and 
a-makin' o' volk madder and madder ; 
but tek thou my word vor 't, Joan, — 
and I bean't wrong not twice i' ten 
year — the burnin' o' the owld arch- 
bishop '11 burn the Pwoap out o' this 
'ere land vor iver and iver. 

Howard. Out of the church, you 
brace of cursed crones, 
Or I will have you duck'd ! ( Women 

hurry out.) Said I not right ? 
For how should reverend prelate or 
throned prince 380 

Brook for an hour such brute malig- 
nity ? 
Ah, what an acrid wine has Luther 
brew'd ! 



Paget. Pooh, pooh, my lord ! poor 

garrulous country -wives. 
Buy you their cheeses, and they'll 

side with you ; 
You cannot judge the liquor from 

the lees. 
Howard. I think that in some sort 

we may. But see, 
Enter Peters. 
Peters, my gentleman, an honest 

Catholic, 
Who follow 'd with the crowd to Cran- 

mer's fire. 
One that would neither misreport nor 

lie, 
Not to gain paradise ; no, nor if the 

Pope 390 

Charged him to do it — he is white as 

death. 
Peters, how pale you look ! you bring 

the smoke 
Of Cranmer's burning with you. 

Peters. Twice or thrice 

The smoke of Cranmer's burning 

wrapt me round. 
Howard. Peters, you know me Cath- 
olic, but English. 
Did he die bravely ? Tell me that, or 

leave 
All else untold. 
Peters. My lord, he died most 

bravely. 
Howard. Then tell me all. 
Paget. Ay, Master Peters, tell us. 
Peters. You saw him how he past 

among the crowd ; 
And ever as he walk'd the Spanish 

friars 400 

Still plied him with entreaty and re- 
proach ; 
But Cranmer, as the helmsman at the 

helm 
Steers, ever looking to the happy 

haven 
Where he shall rest at night, moved 

to his death ; 
And I could see that many silent 

hands 
Came from the crowd and met his 

own ; and thus, 
When we had come where Ridley 

burnt with Latimer, 
He, with a cheerful smile, as one 

whose mind 
Is all made up, in haste put off the 

rags 



75 6 



QUEEN MARY 



ACT V 



They had mock'd his misery with, 
and all in white, 410 

His long white beard, which he had 
never shaven 

Since Henry's death, down- sweeping 
to the chain 

Wherewith they bound him to the 
stake, he stood 

More like an ancient father of the 
Church 

Than heretic of these times ; and still 
the friars 

Plied him, but Cranmer only shook 
his head, 

Or answer' d them in smiling negatives ; 

Whereat Lord Williams gave a sudden 
cry: — 

' Make short ! make short ! ' and so 
they lit the wood. 

Then Cranmer lifted his left hand to 
heaven, 420 

And thrust his right into the bitter 
flame ; 

And crying, in his deep voice, more 
than once, 

'This hath offended — this mrworthy 
hand ! ' 

So held it till it all was burn'd, be- 
fore 

The flame had reach' d his body; I 
stood near — 

Mark'd him — he never uttered moan 
of pain. 

He never stirr'd or writhed, but, like 
a statue, 

Unmoving in the greatness of the 
flame, 

Gave up the ghost ; and so past mar- 
tyr-like — 

Martyr I may not call him — past — 
but whither ? 43 o 

Paget. To purgatory, man, to pur- 
gatory. 
Peters. Nay, but, my lord, he de- 
nied purgatory. 
Paget. Why then to heaven, and 

God ha' mercy on him ! 
Howard. Paget, despite his fearful 
heresies, 

I loved the man, and needs must 
moan for him ; 

O Cranmer ! 

Paget. But your moan is useless 
now. 

Come out, my lord, it is a world of 
fools. [Exeunt 



ACT Y 

Scene I. — London. Hall in the 
Palace 

Queen, Sir Nicholas Heath. 

Heath. Madam, 
I do assure you that it must be look'd 

to. 
Calais is but ill-garrison'd, in Guisnes 
Are scarce two hundred men, and the 

French fleet 
Rule in the narrow seas. It must be 

look'd to, 
If war should fall between yourself 

and France ; 
Or you will lose your Calais. 

Mary. It shall be look'd to ; 

I wish you a good morning, good Sir 

Nicholas. 
Here is the King. [Exit Heath. 

Enter Philip. 
Philip. Sir Nicholas tells you true, 
And you must look to Calais when I 
go. 
Mary. Go ? must you go, indeed 
— again — so soon ? 
Why, nature's licensed vagabond, the 

swallow, 
That might live always in the sun's 

warm heart, 
Stays longer here in our poor North 

than you — 
Knows where he nested — ever comes 
again. 
Philip. And, Madam, so shall I. 
Mary. O, will you ? will you ? 

I am faint with fear that you will 
come no more. 
Philip. Ay, ay ; but many voices 

call me hence. 
Mary. Yoices — I hear unhappy 
rumors — nay, 
I say not, I believe. What voices 
call you 20 

Dearer than mine that should be dear- 
est to you ? 
Alas, my lord ! what voices and how 
many ? 
Philip. The voices of Castile and 
Aragon, 
Granada, Naples, Sicily, and Milan, 
The voices of Franche-Comte, and the 

Netherlands, 
The voices of Peru and Mexico, 



SCENE I 



QUEEN MARY 



757 



Tunis, and Oran, and the Philippines, 
And all the fair spice-islands of the 

East. 
Mary (admiringly). You are the 

mightiest monarch upon earth, 
I but a little Queen ; and so, indeed, 30 
Need you the more. 

Philip. A little Queen ! but when 
I came to wed your majesty, Lord 

Howard, 
Sending an insolent shot that dash'd 

the seas 
Upon us, made us lower our kingly 

flag 
To yours of England. 

Mary. Howard is all English ! 

There is no king, not were he ten 

times king, 
Ten times our husband, but must 

lower his flag 
To that of England in the seas of 

England. 
Philip. Is that your answer ? 
Mary. Being Queen of England, 
I have none other. 
Philip. So. 

Mary. But wherefore not 

Helm the huge vessel of your State, 

my liege, 41 

Here by the side of her who loves you 

most? 
Philip. No, madam, no ! a candle 

in the sun 
Is all but smoke — a star beside the 

moon 
Is all but lost ; your people will not 

crown me — 
Your people are as cheerless as your 

clime, 
Hate me and mine ; witness the brawls, 

the gibbets. 
Here swings a Spaniard — there an 

Englishman ; 
The peoples are unlike as their com- 
plexion ; 
Yet will I be your swallow and re- 
turn — 50 
But now I cannot bide. 

Mary. Not to help one f 

They hate me also for my love to you, 
My Philip ; and these judgments on 

the land — 
Harvestless autumns, horrible agues, 

plague — 
Philip. The blood and sweat of 

heretics at the stake 



Is God's best dew upon the barren field. 
Burn more ! 

Mary. I will, I will ; and you will 

stay ? 
Philip. Have I not said ? Madam, 

I came to sue 
Your Council and yourself to declare 

war. 
Mary. Sir, there are many English 

in your ranks 60 

To help your battle. 
, Philip. So far, good. I say 

I came to sue your Council and your- 
self 
To declare war against the King of 

France. 
Mary. Not to see me ? 
Philip. Ay, madam, to see you. 

Unalterably and pesteringly fond ! 

[Aside. 
But soon or late you must have war 

with France ; 
King Henry warms your traitors at 

his hearth. 
Carew is there, and Thomas Stafford 

there. 
Courtenay, belike — 
Mary. A fool and f eatherhead ! 

Philip. Ay, but they use his name. 

In brief, this Henry 70 

Stirs up your land against you to the 

intent 
That you may lose your English heri- 
tage. 
And then, your Scottish namesake 

marrying 
The Dauphin, he would weld France, 

England, Scotland, 
Into one sword to hack at Spain and 

me. 
Mary. And yet the Pope is now 

colleagued with France ; 
You make your wars upon him down 

in Italy — 
Philip, can that be well ? 

Philip. Content you, madam ; 

You must abide my judgment, and 

my father's, 
Who deems it a most just and holy 

war. 
The Pope would cast the Spaniard out 

of Naples ; 
He calls us worse than Jews. Moors. 

Saracens. 
The Pope has push'd his horns beyond 

his mitre — 



75^ 



QUEEN MARY 



ACT V 



Beyond his province. Now, 

Duke Alva will but touch him on the 

horns, 
And he withdraws ; and of his holy 

head — 
For Alva is true son of the true 

Church — 
No hair is harm'd. Will you not help 

me here ? 
Mary. Alas ! the Coimcil will not 

hear of war. 
They say your wars are not the wars 

of England. 90 

They will not lay more taxes on a 

land 
So hunger-nipt and wretched ; and 

you know 
The crown is poor. We have given 

the church-lands back. 
The nobles would not ; nay, they 

clapt their hands 
Upon their swords when ask'd ; and 

therefore God 
Is hard upon the people. What 's to 

be done ? 
Sir, I will move them in your cause 

again, 
And we will raise us loans and sub- 
sidies 
Among the merchants ; and Sir 

Thomas Gresham 
Will aid us. There is Antwerp and 

the Jews. 100 

Philip. Madam, my thanks. 
Mary. And you will stay your 

going ? 
Philip. And further to discourage 

and lay lame 
The plots of France, altho' you love 

her not, 
You must proclaim Elizabeth your 

heir. 
She stands between you and the Queen 

of Scots. 
Mary. The Queen of Scots at least 

is Catholic. 
Philip. Ay, madam, Catholic; but 

I will not have 
The King of France the King of Eng- 
land too. 
Mary. But she's a heretic, and, 

when I am gone, 
Brings the new learning back. 

Philip. It must be done. 

You must proclaim Elizabeth your 

heir. m 



Mary. Then it is done ; but you 
will stay your going 
Somewhat beyond your settled pur- 
pose ? 

Philip. No ! 

Mary. What, not one day ? 

Philip. You beat ivpon the rock. 

Mary. And I am broken there. 

Philip. Is this a place 

To wail in, madam ? what ! a public 

hall ? 
Go in, I pray you. 

Mary. Do not seem so changed. 
Say go ; but only say it lovingly. 

Philip. You do mistake. I am not 
one to change. n 9 

I never loved you more. 

Mary. Sire, I obey you. 

Come quickly. 

Philip. Ay. [Exit Mary, 

Enter Count de Feria. 
Feria {aside). The Queen in tears ! 
Philip. Feria ! 

Hast thou not mark'd — come closer 

to mine ear — 
How doubly aged this Queen of ours 

hath grown 
Since she lost hope of bearing us a 
child ? 
Feria. Sire, if your Grace hath 

mark'd it, so have I. 
Philip. Hast thou not likewise 
mark'd Elizabeth, 
How fair and royal — like a queen, 
indeed ? 
Feria. Allow me the same answer 
as before — 
That if your Grace hath mark'd her, 
so have I. 
Philip. Good, now ; me thinks my 
Queen is like enough 130 

To leave me by and by. 

Feria. To leave you, sire ? 

Philip. I mean not like to live. 
Elizabeth — 
To Philibert of Savoy, as you know, 
We meant to wed her ; but I am not 

sure 
She will not serve me better — so my 

Queen 
Would leave me — as — my wife. 
Feria. Sire, even so. 

Philip. She will not have Prince 

Philibert of Savoy. 
Feria. No, sire. 



SCENE II 



QUEEN MARY 



759 



Philip. I have to pray you, some 

odd time, 

To sound the Princess carelessly on 

this ; 139 

Not as from me, but as your phantasy ; 

And tell me how she takes it. 

Feria. Sire, I will. 

Philip. I am not certain but that 
Philibert 
Shall be the man ; and I shall urge his 

suit 
Upon the Queen, because I am not 

certain. 
You understand, Feria. 
Feria. Sire, I do. 

Philip. And if you be not secret 
in this matter, 
You understand me there, too ? 
Feria. Sire, I do. 

Philip. You must be sweet and 
supple, like a Frenchman. 
She is none of those who loathe the 
honeycomb. 

[Exit Feria. 
Enter Renard. 
Renard. My liege, I bring you 

goodly tidings. 
Philip. Well? 150 

Renard. There will be war with 
France, at last, my liege ; 
Sir Thomas Stafford, a bull-headed ass, 
Sailing from France, with thirty Eng- 
lishmen, 
Hath taken Scarboro' Castle, north 

of York ; 
Proclaims himself protector, and af- 
firms 
The Queen has forfeited her right to 

reign 
By marriage with an alien — other 

things 
As idle ; a weak Wyatt ! Little doubt 
This buzz will soon be silenced ; but 

the Council — 
I have talk'd with some already — are 
for war. 160 

This is the fifth conspiracy hatch'd in 

France ; 
They show their teeth upon it ; and 

your Grace, 
So you will take advice of mine, 

should stay 
Yet for a while, to shape and guide 
the event. 
Philip. Good ! Renard, I will stay 
then. 



Renard. Also, sire, 
Might I not say — to please your wife, 
the Queen ? 
Philip. Ay, Renard, if you care to 
put it so. 

[Exeunt. 

Scene II 

A Room in the Palace 

Mary, sitting : a rose in her hand. 
Lady Clarence. Alice in the 
background. 

Mary. Look ! I have play'd with 
this poor rose so long 
I have broken off the head. 

Lady Clarence. Your Grace hath 
been 
More merciful to many a rebel head 
That should have fallen, and may rise 
again. 
Mary. There were not many hang'd 

for Wyatt's rising. 
Lady Clarence. Nay, not two hun- 
dred. 
Mary. I could weep for them 

And her, and mine own self and all 
the world. 
Lady Clarence. For her? for whom, 
your Grace ? 

Enter Usher. 
Usher. The Cardinal. 

Enter Cardinal Pole (Mary rises). 
Mary. Reginald Pole, what news 
hath plagued thy heart ? 
What makes thy favor like the blood- 
less head 10 
Fallen on the block, and held up by 

the hair ? 
Philip ? — 

Pole. No, Philip is as warm in life 
As ever. 

Mary. Ay, and then as cold as ever. 
Is Calais taken ? 

Pole. Cousin, there hath chanced 
A sharper harm to England and to 

Rome 
Than Calais taken. Julius the Third 
Was ever just, and mild, and father- 
like; 
But this new Pope Caraffa, Paul the 

Fourth, 
Not only reft me of that legateship 



760 



QUEEN MARY 



ACT V 



Which Julius gave me, and the legate- 
ship 20 

Annex'd to Canterbury — nay, but, 
worse — 

And yet I must obey the Holy Father, 

And so must you, good cousin ; — 
worse than all, 

A passing bell toll'd in a dying ear — 

He hath cited me to Rome, for heresy, 

Before his Inquisition. 

Mary. I knew it, cousin. 

But held from you all papers sent by 
Rome, 

That you might rest among us, till 
the Pope, 

To compass which I wrote myself to 
Rome, 

Reversed his doom, and that you 
might not seem 30 

To disobey his Holiness. 

Pole. He hates Philip ; 

He is all Italian, and he hates the 
Spaniard ; 

He cannot dream that I advised the 
war; 

He strikes thro' me at Philip and your- 
self. 

Nay, but I know it of old, he hates me 
too; 

So brands me in the stare of Chris- 
tendom 

A heretic ! 

Now, even now, when bow'd before 
my time, 

The house half-ruin'd ere the lease be 
out ; 

When I should guide the Church in 
peace at home, 40 

After my twenty years of banishment, 

And all my lifelong labor to uphold 

The primacy — a heretic ! Long ago, 

When I was ruler in the patrimony, 

I was too lenient to the Lutheran, 

And I and learned friends among our- 
selves 

Would freely canvass certain Luther- 
anisms. 

What then, he knew I was no Lu- 
theran. 

A heretic ! 

He drew this shaft against me to the 
head, 5 o 

When it was thought I might be cho- 
sen Pope, 

But then withdrew it. In full con- 
sistory, 



When I was made archbishop, he ap- 
proved me. 

And how should he have sent me 
legate hither, 

Deeming me heretic ? and what heresy 
since ? 

But he was evermore mine enemy, 

And hates the Spaniard — fiery-chol- 
eric, 

A drinker of black, strong, volcanic 
wines, 

That ever make him fierier. I, a here- 
tic? 

Your Highness knows that in pursu- 
ing heresy 60 

I have gone beyond your late Lord 
Chancellor, — 

He cried ' Enough ! enough ! ' before 
his death, — 

Gone beyond him and mine own natu- 
ral man — 

It was God's cause — so far they call 
me now 

The scourge and butcher of their Eng- 
lish church. 
Mary. Have courage, your reward 

is heaven itself. 
Pole. They groan amen ; they swarm 
into the fire 

Like flies — for what ? no dogma. 
They know nothing ; 

They burn for nothing. 
Mary. You have done your 

best. 
Pole. Have done my best, and as a 
faithful son, 70 

That all day long hath wrought his 
father's work, 

When back he comes at evening hath 
the door 

Shut on him by the father whom he 
loved, 

His early follies cast into his teeth, 

And the poor son turn'd out into the 
street 

To sleep, to die — I shall die of it, cou- 
sin. 
Mary. I pray you be not so discon- 
solate ; 

I still will do mine utmost with the 
Pope. 

Poor cousin ! 

Have not I been the fast friend of your 
life 80 

Since mine began, and it was thought 
we two 



Cardinal Pole 



SCENE II 



QUEEN MARY 



761 



Might make one flesh, and cleave unto 

each other 
As man and wife ? 

Pole. Ah, cousin, I remember 

How I would dandle you upon my 

knee 
At lisping-age. I watch' d you dancing 

once 
With your huge father ; he look'd the 

Great Harry, 
You but his cockboat ; prettily you did 

it, 
And innocently. No — we were not 

made 
One flesh in happiness, no happiness 

here ; 
But now we are made one flesh in mis- 
ery ; 90 
Our bridesmaids are not lovely — Dis- 
appointment, 
Ingratitude, Injustice, Evil-tongue, 
Labor-in-vain. 

Mary. Surely, not all in vain. 

Peace, cousin, peace ! I am sad at 

heart myself. 
Pole. Our altar is a mound of dead 

men's clay, 
Dug from the grave that yawns for us 

beyond ; 
And there is one Death stands behind 

the groom, 
And there is one Death stands behind 

the bride — 
Mary. Have you been looking at the 

' Dance of Death ' ? 
Pole. No ; but these libellous papers 

which I found 100 

Strewn in your palace. Look you here 

— the Pope 
Pointing at me with ' Pole, the her- 
etic, 
Thou hast burnt others, do thou burn 

thyself, 
Or I will burn thee ; ' and this other ; 

see ! — 
' We pray continually for the death 
Of our accursed Queen and Cardinal 

Pole.' 
This last — I dare not read it her. 

[Aside. 
Mary. Away ! 

Why do you bring me these ? 
I thought you knew me better. I never 

read, 
I tear them ; they come back upon my 

dreams. no 



The hands that write them should be 

burnt clean off 
As Cranmer's, and the fiends that utter 

them 
Tongue-torn with pincers, lash'd to 

death, or lie 
Famishing in black cells, while fam- 
ish' d rats 
Eat them alive. Why do they bring 

me these ? 
Do you mean to drive me mad ? 

Pole. I had forgotten 

How these poor libels trouble you. 

Your pardon, 
Sweet cousin, and farewell ! ' O bub- 
ble world, 
Whose colors in a moment break and 

fly!' 
Why, who said that ? I know not — 
true enough ! 120 

[Puts up the papers, all but the 
last, which falls. Exit Pole. 
Alice. If Cranmer's spirit were a 
mocking one, 
And heard these two, there might be 
sport for him. [Aside. 

Mary. Clarence, they hate me ; even 
while I speak 
There lurks a silent dagger, listening 
In some dark closet, some long gal- 
lery, drawn, 
And panting for my blood as I go by. 
Lady Clarence. Nay, madam, there 
be loyal papers too, 
And I have often found them. 

Mary. Find me one I 

Lady Clarence. Ay, madam ; but 
Sir Nicholas Heath, the Chan- 
cellor, 
Would see your Highness. 

Mary. Wherefore should I see him ? 
Lady Clarence. Well, Madam, he 
may bring you news from 
Philip. 131 

Mary. So, Clarence. 
Lady Clarence. Let me first put up 
your hair ; 
It tumbles all abroad. 

Mary. And the gray dawn 

Of an old age that never will bo mine 
Is all the clearer seen. No, no ; what 

matters ? 
Forlorn I am, and let me look forlorn. 
Enter Sir Nicholas Heath. 
Heath. I bring your Majesty such 
grievous news 



762 



QUEEN MARY 



ACT V 



I grieve to bring it. Madam, Calais is 

taken. 
Mary. What traitor spoke ? Here, 

let my cousin Pole 
Seize him and burn him for a Lu- 
theran. 140 
Heath. Her Highness is unwell. I 

will retire. 
Lady Clarence. Madam, your Chan- 
cellor, Sir Nicholas Heath. 
Mary. Sir Nicholas! I am stunn'd 

— Nicholas Heath ? 
Methought some traitor smote me on 

the head. 
What said you, my good lord, that 

our brave English 
Had sallied out from Calais and driven 

back 
The Frenchmen from their trenches ? 
Heath. Alas ! no. 

That gateway to the mainland over 

which 
Our flag hath floated for two hundred 

years 
Is France again. 

Mary. So ; but it is not lost — 

Not yet. Send out ; let England as of 

old 
Rise lionlike, strike hard and deep into 
The prey they are rending from her — 

ay, and rend 
The renders too. Send out, send out, 

and make 
Musters in all the counties ; gather all 
From sixteen years to sixty ; collect 

the fleet ; 
Let every craft that carries sail and 

gun 
Steer toward Calais. Guisnes is not 

taken yet ? 
Heath. Guisnes is not taken yet. 
Mary. There yet is hope. 

Heath. Ah, madam, but your people 

are so cold ; 160 

I do much fear that England will not 

care. 
Methinks there is no manhood left 

among us. 
Mary. Send out ; I am too weak to 

stir abroad. 
Tell my mind to the Council — to the 

Parliament ; 
Proclaim it to the winds. Thou art 

cold thyself 
To babble of their coldness. O, would 

I were 



My father for an hour ! Away now — 
quick ! [Exit Heath. 

I hoped I had served God with all my 
might ! 

It seems I have not. Ah ! much heresy 

Shelter' d in Calais. Saints, I have re- 
built i 7 o 

Your shrines, set up your broken im- 
ages ; 

Be comfortable to me. Suffer not 

That my brief reign in England be 
defamed 

Thro' all her angry chronicles hereafter 

By loss of Calais. Grant me Calais. 
Philip, 

We have made war upon the Holy 
Father 

All for your sake. What good could 
come of that ? 
Lady Clarence. No, Madam, not 
against the Holy Father ; 

You did but help King Philip's war 
with France, 

Your troops were never down in Italy. 

Mary. I am a byword. Heretic and 

rebel 181 

Point at me and make merry. Philip 
v gone ! 

And Calais gone ! Time that I were 
gone too ! 
Lady Clarence. Nay, if the fetid 
gutter had a voice 

And cried I was not clean, what should 
I care ? 

Or you, for heretic cries ? And I be- 
lieve, 

Spite of your melancholy Sir Nicholas, 

Your England is as loyal as myself. 
Mary {seeing the paper dropt by Pole). 
There ! there ! another paper ! 
Said you not 189 

Many of these were loyal ? Shall I try 

If this be one of such ? 
Lady Clarence. Let it be, let it be. 

God pardon me ! I have never yet 

found one. [Aside. 

Mary {reads). 'Your people hate 

you as your husband hates you/ 

Clarence, Clarence, what have I done ? 
what sin 

Beyond all grace, all pardon ? Mo- 
ther of God, 

Thou knowest never woman meant so 
well, 

And fared so ill in this disastrous 
world. 



SCENE II 



QUEEN MARY 



763 



My people hate me and desire my 

death. 

Lady Clarence. No, madam, no. 

Mary. My husband hates me, and 

desires my death. 200 

Lady Clarence. No, madam ; these 

are libels. 
Mary. I hate myself, and I desire 

my death. 
Lady Clarence. Long live your 
Maj esty ! Shall Alice sing you 
One of her pleasant songs ? Alice, my 

child, 
Bring us your lute (Alice goes). They 

say the gloom of Saul 
Was lighten'd by young David's harp. 
Mary. Too young ! 

And never knew a Philip. 
Re-enter Alice. 

Give me the lute. 
He hates me ! 

(She sings.) 

Hapless doom of woman happy in betroth- 
ing ! 

Beauty passes like a breath, and love is lost 
"in loathing. 210 

Low, my lute ; speak low, my lute, but say 
the world is nothing — 
Low, lute, low ! 

Love will hover round the flowers when 
they first awaken ; 

Love will fly the fallen leaf, and not be 
overtaken. 

Low, my lute ! 0, low, nry lute ! we fade 
and are forsaken — 

Low, dear lute, low ! 

Take it away ! not low enough for 

me ! 
Alice. Your Grace hath a low voice. 
Mary. How dare you say it ? 

Even for that he hates me. A low 

voice 
Lost in a wilderness where none can 

hear ! 220 

A voice of shipwreck on a shoreless 

sea ! 
A low voice from the dust and from 

the grave ! 
(Sittinf/ on the ground.) There, am I 

low enough now ? 
Alice. Good Lord ! how grim and 

ghastly looks her Grace, 
With both her knees drawn upward to 

her chin. 
There was an old-world tomb beside 

my father's, 



And this was open'd, and the dead 

were found 
Sitting, and in this fashion ; she looks 

a corpse. 
Enter Lady Magdalen D acres. 
Lady Magdalen. Madam, the Count 
de Feria waits without, 
In hopes to see your Highness. 
Lady Clarence (pointing to Mary). 
Wait he must — 230 

Her trance again. She neither sees 

nor hears, 
And may not speak for hours. 

Lady Magdalen. Unhappiest 

Of queens and wives and women ! 
Alice (in the foreground with Lady 
Magdalen). And all along 

Of Philip. 

Lady Magdalen. Not so loud ! Our 
Clarence there 
Sees ever such an aureole round the 

Queen, 
It gilds the greatest wronger of her 

peace, 
Who stands the nearest to her. 

Alice. Ay, this Philip ; 

I used to love the Queen with all my 

heart — 
God help me, but methinks I love her 

less 
For such a dotage upon such a man. 240 
I would I were as tall and strong as 
you. 
Lady Magdalen. I seem half-shamed 

at times to be so tall. 
Alice. You are the stateliest deer in 
all the herd — 
Beyond his aim — but I am small and 

scandalous, 
And love to hear bad tales of Philip. 

Lady Magdalen. Why ? 

I never heard him utter worse of you 
Than that you were low-statured. 

Alice. Does he think 

Low stature is low nature, or all wo- 
men's 
Low as his own ? 

Lady Magdalen. There you strike 
in the nail. 
This coarseness is a want of phantasy. 
It is the low man thinks the woman 
low ; 251 

Sin is too dull to see beyond himself. 
Alice. Ah, Magdalen, sin is bold as 
well as dull. 
How dared he ? 



764 



QUEEN MARY 



ACT V 



Lady Magdalen. Stupid soldiers oft 
are bold. 

Poor lads, they see not what the gen- 
eral sees, 

A risk of utter ruin. I am not 

Beyond his aim, or was not. 
Alice. Who ? Not you ? 

Tell, tell me ; save my credit "with 
myself. 
Lady Magdalen. I never breathed it 
to a bird in the eaves, 

Would not for all the stars and maiden 
moon 260 

Our drooping Queen should know ! 
In Hampton Court 

My window look'd upon the corri- 
dor ; 

And I was robing ; this poor throat of 
mine 

Barer than I should wish a man to 
see it — 

W^hen he we speak of drove the win- 
dow back, 

And. like a thief, push'd in his royal 
hand ; 

But by God's providence a good stout 
staff 

Lay near me, and you know me strong 
of arm. 

I do believe I lamed his Majesty's 

For a day or two, tho', give the devil 
his due, . 270 

I never found he bore me any spite. 
Alice. I would she could have wed- 
ded that poor youth, 

My Lord of Devon, — light enough, 
God knows, 

And mixt with Wyatt's rising, — and 
the boy 

Not out of him — but neither cold, 
coarse, cruel, 

And more than all — no Spaniard. 
Lady Clarence. Not so loud. 

Lord Devon, girls ! what are you 
whispering here ? 
Alice. Probing an old state-secret — 
how it chanced 

That this young earl was sent on for- 
eign travel, 

Not lost his head. 

Lady Clarence. There was no proof 
against him. 280 

Alice. Nay, madam; did not Gardi- 
ner intercept 

A letter which the Count de Noailles 
wrote 



To that dead traitor Wyatt, with full 

proof 
Of Courtenay's treason ? What be- 
came of that ? 
Lady Clarence. Some say that Gar- 
diner, out of love for him, 
Burnt it, and some relate that it was 

lost 
When Wyatt sack'd the Chancellor's 

house in Southwark. 
Let dead things rest. 

Alice. Ay, and with him who died 

Alone in Italy. 

Lady Clarence. Much changed, I 

hear, 

Had put off levity and put graveness 

on. 290 

The foreign courts report him in his 

manner 
Noble as his young person and an old 

shield. 
It might be so — but all is over now ; 
He caught a chill in the lagoons of 

Venice, 
And died in Padua. 

Mary {looking up suddenly). Died 

in the true faith ? 
Lady Clarence. Ay, madam, happily. 
Mary. Happier he than I. 

Lady Magdalen. It seems her High- 
ness hath awaken' d. Think 
you 
That I might dare to tell her that the 
count — 
Mary. I will see no man hence for 
evermore, 
Saving my confessor and my cousin 
Pole. 300 

Lady Magdalen. It is the Count de 

Feria, my dear lady. 
Mary. What count ? 
Lady Magdalen, The Count de 
Feria, from his Majesty 
King Philip. 
Mary. Philip ! quick ! loop up my 
hair ! 
Throw cushions on that seat, and make 

it thronelike. 
Arrange my dress — the gorgeous In- 
dian shawl 
That Philip brought me in our happy 

days ! — 
That covers all. So — am I some- 
what queenlike, 
Bride of the mightiest sovereign upon 
earth ? 



SCENE III 



QUEEN MARY 



765 



Lady Clarence. Ay. so your Grace 
would bide a moment yet. 310 

Mary. No, no, he brings a letter. I 
may die 
Before I read it. Let me see him at 
once. 

Enter Count de Feria (kneels). 

Feria. I trust your Grace is well, 
{Aside.) How her hand burns ! 
Mary. I am not well, but it will 
better me, 
Sir Count, to read the letter which 
you bring. 
Feria. Madam, I bring no letter. 
Mary. How ! no letter ? 

Feria. His Highness is so vex'd 

with strange affairs — 
Mary. That his own wife is no af- 
fair of his. 
Feria. Nay, madam, nay ! he sends 
his veriest love, 319 

And says he will come quickly. 

Mary. Doth he, indeed ? 

You, sir, do you remember what you 

said 
When last you came to England ? 

Feria. Madam, I brought 

My King's congratulations ; it was 

hoped 
Your Highness was once more in 

happy state 
To give him an heir male. 

Mary. Sir, you said more ; 

You said he would come quickly. I 

had horses 
On all the road from Dover, day and 

night ; 
On all the road from Harwich, night 

and day ; 
But the child came not, and the hus- 
band came not ; 
And yet he will come quickly. — Thou 
hast learnt 330 

Thy lesson, and I mine. There is no 

need 
For Philip so to shame himself again. 
Return, 
And tell him that I know he comes 

no more. 
Tell him at last I know his love is 

dead, 
And that I am in state to bring forth 

death — 
Thou art commission'd to Elizabeth, 
And not to me ! 



Feria. Mere compliments and 

wishes. 
But shall I take some message from 
your Grace ? 
Mary. Tell her to come and close 
my dying eyes, 34 o 

And wear my crown, and dance upon 
my grave. 
Feria. Then I may say your Grace 
will see your sister ? 
Your Grace is too low-spirited. Air 

and sunshine. 
I would we had you, madam, in our 

warm Spain. 
You droop in your dim London. 

Mary. Have him away ! 

I sicken of his readiness. 

Lady Clarence. My Lord Count, 

Her Highness is too ill for colloquy. 

Feria (kneels and kisses her hand). 

I wish her Highness better. 

(Aside.) How her hand burns! 

[Exeunt. 

Scene III 
A House near London 

Elizabeth, Steward of the 
Household, Attendants. 

Elizabeth. There 's half an angel 
wrong' d in your account; 
Methinks I am all angel, that I bear it 
Without more ruffling. Cast it o'er 
again. 
Steward. I were whole devil if I 
wrong'd you, madam. 

[Exit Steward. 
Attendant. The Count de Feria, 

from the King of Spain. 
Elizabeth. Ah ! — let him enter. 
Nay, you need not go : 

[To her Ladies. 
Remain within the chamber, but apart. 
We '11 have no private conference. 
Welcome to England ! 
Enter Feria. 
Feria. Fair island star ! 
Elizabeth. I shine! What else, Sir 

Count ? 
Feria. As far as France, and into 
Philip's heart. 10 

My King would know if you be fairly 

served, 
And lodged, and treated. 



766 



QUEEN MARY 



ACT V 



Elizabeth. You see the lodging, sir. 

I am well -served, and am in everything 

Most loyal and most grateful to the 

Queen. 

Feria. You should be grateful to 

my master, too. 

He spoke of this ; and unto him you 

owe 
That Mary hath acknowledged you 
her heir. 
Elizabeth. No, not to her nor him ; 
but to the people, 
Who know my right, and love me, as 

I love 
The people ! whom God aid ! 

Feria. You will be Queen, 

And, were I Philip — 

Elizabeth. Wherefore pause you — 

what ? 21 

Feria. Nay, but I speak from mine 

own self, not him. 

Your royal sister cannot last; your 

hand 
Will be much coveted ! What a deli- 
cate one ! 
Our Spanish ladies have none such — 

and there, 
Were you in Spain, this fine fair gos- 
samer gold — 
Like sun- gilt breathings on a frosty 

dawn — 
That hovers round your shoulder — 

Elizabeth. Is it so fine ? 

Troth, some have said so. 
Feria. — would be deemed a 

miracle. 
Elizabeth. Your Philip hath gold 
hair and golden beard ; 30 

There must be ladies many with hair 
like mine. 
Feria. Some few of Gothic blood 
have golden hair, 
But none like yours. 
Elizabeth. I am happy you approve 

it. 
Feria. But as to Philip and your 
Grace, — consider, — 
If such a one as you should match 

with Spain, 
What hinders but that Spain and 

England join'd 
Should make the mightiest empire 

earth has known. 
Spain would be England on her seas, 

and England 
Mistress of the Indies. 



Elizabeth. It may chance that Eng- 
land 
Will be the Mistress of the Indies 

yet, 40 

Without the help of Spain. 

Feria. Impossible ; 

Except you put Spain down. 
Wide of the mark even for a mad- 
man's dream. 
Elizabeth. Perhaps; but we have 

seamen. Count de Feria, 
I take it that the King hath spoken 

to you ; 
But is Don Carlos such a goodly 

match ? 
Feria. Don Carlos, Madam, is but 

twelve years old. 
Elizabeth. Ay, tell the King that I 

will muse upon it ; 
He is my good friend, and I would 

keep him so ; 
But — he would have me Catholic of 

Rome, 50 

And that I scarce can be ; and, sir, till 

now 
My sister's marriage, and my father's 

marriages, 
Make me full fain to live and die a 

maid. 
But I am much beholden to your King, 
Have you aught else to tell me ? 

Feria. Nothing, madam, 

Save that methought I gather'd from 

the Queen 
That she would see your Grace before 

she — died. 
Elizabeth. God's death ! and where- 
fore spake you not before ? 
We dally with our lazy moments here, 
And hers are number'd. Horses there, 

without ! 60 

I am much beholden to the King, 

your master. 
Why did you keep me prating ? 

Horses, there ! 

[Exit Elizabeth, etc. 
Feria. So from a clear sky falls the 

thunderbolt! 
Don Carlos ? Madam, if you marry 

Philip, 
Then I and he will snaffle your ' God's 

death,' 
And break your paces in, and make 

you tame. 
God's death, forsooth — you do not 

know King Philip ! [Exit. 



SCENE IV 



QUEEN MARY 



767 




Queen Elizabeth 



Scene IV 

London. Before the Palace 

A light burning within. Voices of the 
night passing. 

First. Is not yon light in the 

Queen's chamber ? 
Second. Ay, 

They say she 's dying. 

First. So is Cardinal Pole. 

May the great angels join their wings, 

and make 
Down for their heads to heaven ! 
Second. Amen. Come on. 

[Exeunt. 



Two Others. 
First. There 's the Queen's light. I 

hear she cannot live. 
Second. God curse her and her le- 
gate ! Gardiner burns 
Already ; but to pay them full in kind, 
The hottest hold in all the devil's den 
Were but a sort of winter. Sir, in 

Guernsey, 
I watch'd a woman burn ; and in her 

agony 10 

The mother came upon her — a child 

was born — 
And, sir, they huiTd it back into the 

fire, 
That, being but baptized in tiro, the 

babe 



768 



QUEEN MARY 



ACT V 



Might be in fire for ever. Ah, good 

neighbor, 
There should be something fierier than 

fire 
To yield them their deserts. 

First. Amen to all 

Your wish, and further ! 17 

A Third Voice. Deserts ! Amen to 
what ? Whose deserts ? Yours ? 
You have a gold ring on your finger, 
and soft raiment about your body ; 
and is not the woman up yonder sleep- 
ing after all she has done, in peace 
and quietness, on a soft bed, in a 
closed room, with light, fire, physic, 
tendance ; and I have seen the true 
men of Christ lying famine-dead by 
scores, and under no ceiling but the 
cloud that wept on them, not for 
them. 30 

First. Friend, tho' so late, it is not 

safe to preach. 
You had best go home. What are 

you? 
Third. What am I ? One who cries 
continually with sweat and tears to 
the Lord God that it would please 
Him out of His infinite love to break 
down all kingship and queenship, all 
priesthood and prelacy ; to cancel and 
abolish all bonds of human allegiance, 
all the magistracy, all the nobles, and 
all the wealthy ; and to send us again, 
according to His promise, the one 
King, the Christ, and all things in 
common, as in the day of the first 
church, when Christ Jesus was 
King. 46 

First. If ever I heard a madman, — 

let 's away ! 
Why, you long-winded — Sir, you go 

beyond me. 
I pride myself on being moderate. 
Good night ! Go home ! Besides, you 

curse so loud, 
The watch will hear you. Get you 

home at once. [Exeunt. 



Scene V 

London. A Room in the Palace 

A Gallery on one side. The moonlight 
streaming tJir<>>t(/Ii a range of windows 
<>n the trail opposite. Mary, Lady 



Clarence, Lady Magdalen Da 
cres, Alice. Queen pacing the 
Gallery. A writing-table in front. 
Queen comes to the table and writes 
and goes again, pacing the Gallery. 

Lady Clarence. Mine eyes are dim : 

what hath she written ? read. 
Alice. ' I am dying, Philip ; come 

to me.' 

Lady Magdalen. There — up and 

down, poor lady, up and down. 

Alice. And how her shadow crosses 

one by one 

The moonlight casements pattern'd on 

the wall, 
Following her like her sorrow ! She 
turns again. 

[Queen sits and writes, and goes 
again. 
Lady Clarence. What hath she writ- 
ten now ? 
Alice. Nothing ; but ' come, come, 
come/ and all awry, 
And blotted by her tears. This can- 
not last. [Queen returns. 
Mary. I whistle to the bird has 
broken cage, 10 
And all in vain. [Sitting doicn. 
Calais gone — Guisnes gone, too — and 
Philip gone ! 
Lady Clarence. Dear madam, 
Philip is but at the wars ; 
I cannot doubt but that he comes 

again ; 
And he is with you in a measure still. 
I never look'd upon so fair a likeness 
As your great King in armor there, 

his hand 
Upon his helmet. 

[Pointing to the portrait of 

Philip on the wall. 

Mary. Doth he not look noble ? 

I had heard of him in battle over seas, 

And I would have my warrior all in 

arms. 20 

He said it was not courtly to stand 

helmeted 
Before the Queen. He had his gra- 
cious moment, 
Altho' you'll not believe me. How 

he smiles 
As if he loved me yet ! 
Lady Clarence. And so he does. 

Mary. He never loved me — nay, 
he could not love me. 



SCENE V 



QUEEN MARY 



769 



It was his father's policy against 

France. 
I am eleven years older than he, 
Poor boy ! [ Weeps. 

Alice. That was a lusty boy of 

twenty-seven ; [Aside. 

Poor enough in God's grace ! 

Mary. And all in vain ! 

The Queen of Scots is married to the 

Dauphin, 31 

And Charles, the lord of this low 

world, is gone ; 
And all his wars and wisdoms past 

away ; 
And in a moment I shall follow 

him. 
Lady Clarence. Nay, dearest lady, 

see your good physician. 
Mary. Drugs — but he knows they 

cannot help me — says 
That rest is all — tells me I must not 

think — 
That I must rest — I shall rest by and 

by. 

Catch the wild cat, cage him, and 

when he springs 
And maims himself against the bars, 

say 'rest.' 40 

Why, you must kill him if you would 

have him rest — 
Dead or alive, you cannot make him 

happy. 
Lady Clarence. Your Majesty has 

lived so pure a life, 
And done such mighty things by Holy 

Church, 
I trust that God will make you happy 

yet. 
Mary. What is the strange thing 

happiness ? Sit down here. 
Tell me thine happiest hour. 

Lady Clarence. I will, if that 

May make your Grace forget yourself 

a little. 
There runs a shallow brook across our 

field 
For twenty miles, where the black 

crow flies five, 50 

And doth so bound and babble all the 

way 
As if itself were happy. It was May- 
time, 
And I was walking with the man I 

loved. 
I loved him. but I thought I was not 

loved. 



And both were silent, letting the wild 

brook 
Speak for us — till he stoop'd and 

gather'd one 
From out a bed of thick forget-me- 
nots, 
Look'd hard and sweet at me, and 

gave it me. 
I took it. tho' I did not know I took 

it, 
And put it in my bosom, and all at 

once 60 

I felt his arms about me, and his 

lips — 
Mary. O God ! I have been too 

slack, too slack ; 
There are Hot Gospellers even among 

our guards — 
Nobles we dared not touch. We have 

but burnt 
The heretic priest, workmen, and wo- 
men and children. 
Wet, famine, ague, fever, storm, 

wreck, wrath, — 
We have so play'd the coward ; but 

by God's grace, 
We '11 follow Philip's leading, and set 

up 
The Holy Office here — garner the 

wheat, 
And burn the tares with unquench- 
able fire ! 70 
Burn ! — 
Fie, what a savor ! tell the cooks to 

close 
The doors of all the offices below. 
Latimer ! 
Sir, we are private with our women 

here — 
Ever a rough, blunt, and uncourtly 

fellow — 
Thou light a torch that never will go 

out! 
'Tis out — mine flames. Women, the 

Holy Father 
Has ta'en the legateship from our 

cousin Pole — 
Was that well done ? and poor Pole 

pines of it, So 

As I do, to the death. I am but a wo 

man, 
I have no power. — Ah, weak and 

meek old man, 
Sevenfold dishonord even in the sight 
Of thine own sectaries— No, no. No 

pardon ! — 



77° 



QUEEN MARY 



ACT V 



Why, that was false ; there is the right 

hand still 
Beckons me hence. 
Sir, you were burnt for heresy, not for 

treason, 
Remember that ! 't was I and Bonner 

did it, 
And Pole ; we are three to one — Have 

you found mercy there, 
Grant it me here — and see, he smiles 

and goes, 9° 

Gentle as in life. 
Alice. Madam, who goes ? King 

Philip ? 
Mary. No, Philip comes and goes, 

but never goes. 
Women, when I am dead, 
Open my heart, and there you will 

find written 
Two names, Philip and Calais ; open 

his, — 
So that he have one, — 
You will find Philip only, policy, pol- 
icy, — 
Ay, worse than that — not one hour 

true to me ! 
Foul maggots crawling in a fester'd 

vice ! 
Adulterous to the very heart of 

hell ! ioo 

Hast thou a knife ? 
Alice. Ay, madam, but o' God's 

mercy — 
Mary. Fool, think' st thou I would 

peril mine own soul 
By slaughter of the body ? I could 

not, girl, 
Not this way — callous with a con- 
stant stripe, 
Unwoundable. The knife ! 

Alice. Take heed, take heed ! 

The blade is keen as death. 

Mary. This Philip shall not 

Stare in upon me in my haggard- 

ness ; 
Old, miserable, diseased, 
Incapable of children. Come thou 

down. 
[Cuts out the picture and throws 
it down. 
Lie there. (Wails.) O God, I have 

kill'd my Philip ! 
Alice. No, no 

Madam, you have but cut the canvas 

out; 
We can replace it 



Mary. All is well then ; rest — 
I will to rest ; he said I must have rest. 
[ Cries of ' Elizabeth ' in the street. 
A cry ! What's that ? Elizabeth? re- 
volt ? 
A new Northumberland, another, Wy- 

att? 
I'll fight it on the threshold of the 

grave. 
Lady Clarence. Madam, your royal 

sister comes to see you. 
Mary. I will not see her. 
Who knows if Boleyn's daughter be 

my sister ? 
I will see none except the priest. 

Your arm. [To Lady Clarence. 
O Saint of Aragon, with that sweet 

worn smile 121 

Among thy patient wrinkles — help 

me hence. [Exeunt. 

The Priest passes. Enter Elizabeth 
and Sir William Cecil. 
Elizabeth. Good counsel yours. — 

No one in waiting ? still, 
As if the chamberlain were Death 

himself ! 
The room she sleeps in — is not this 

the way ? 
No, that way there are voices. Am I 

too late ? 
Cecil . . . God guide me lest I lose 

the way ! [Exit Elizabeth. 

Cecil. Many points weather'd, many 

perilous ones, 
At last a harbor opens ; but therein 
Sunk rocks — they need fine steering 

— much it is 130 
To be nor mad nor bigot — have a 

mind — 

Nor let priests talk, or dream of 
worlds to be, 

Miscolor things about her — sudden 
touches 

For him, or him — sunk rocks ; no 
passionate faith — 

But — if let be — balance and com- 
promise ; 

Brave, wary, sane to the heart of her 

— a Tudor 

School'd by the shadow of death — a 

Boleyn, too, 
Glancing across the Tudor — not so 
well. 

Enter Alice. 
How is the good Queen now ? 

Alice. Away from Philip. 



SCENE V 



QUEEN MARY 



771 



Back in her childhood — prattling to 

her mother 140 

Of her betrothal to the Emperor 

Charles, 
And childlike-jealous of him again — 

and once 
She thank' d her father sweetly for his 

book 
Against that godless German. Ah, 

those days 
Were happy. It was never merry 

world 
In England since the Bible came 

among us. 
Cecil. And who says that ? 
Alice. It is a saying among the 

Catholics. 
Cecil. It never will be merry world 

in England 



my 

ac- 



Till all men have their Bible, rich and 
poor. I50 

Alice. The Queen is dying, or you 
dare not say it. 

Enter Elizabeth. 
Elizabeth. The Queen is dead. 
Cecil. Then here she stands ! 

homage. 
Elizabeth. She knew me, and 
knowledged me her heir, 
Pray'd me to pay her debts, and keep 

the Faith ; 
Then claspt the cross, and pass'd away 

in peace. 
I left her lying still and beautiful, 
More beautiful than in life. Why 

would you vex yourself, 
Poor sister? Sir, I swear I have no 
heart 




Sir William Cecil 



772 



QUEEN MARY 



ACT V 



To be your Queen. To reign is rest- 
less fence, 
Tierce, quart, and trickery. Peace is 

with the dead. 160 

Her life was winter, for her spring 

was nipt ; 
And she loved much: pray God she 

be forgiven ! 
Cecil. Peace with the dead, who 

never were at peace ! 
Yet she loved one so much — I needs 

must say — 
That never English monarch dying 

left 
England so little. 



Elizabeth. But with Cecil's aid 

And others, if our person be secured 
From traitor stabs — we will make 
England great. 

Enter Paget, and other Lords of 
the Council, Sir Ralph Bagen 
hall, etc. 

Lords. God save Elizabeth, the 

Queen of England ! 
Bagenhall. God save the Crown! 

the Papacy is no more. 170 

Paget (aside). Are we so sure of 

that ? 
Acclamation. God save the Queen ! 




Lord Lytton 



HAROLD 



A DRAMA 

To His Excellency 

THE RIGHT HON. LORD LYTTON, 

Viceroy and Governor- General of India. 

My dear Lord Lytton, — After old-world records — such as the Bayeux tapestry 
and the Roman de Rou, — Edward Freeman's History of the Norman Conquest, and your 
father's Historical Romance treating of the same times, have been mainly helpful to me 
in writing this Drama. Your father dedicated his 'Harold ' to my father's brother ; al- 
low me to dedicate mv ' Harold ' to yourself. 

A. Tennyson. 



SHOW-DAY AT BATTLE ABBEY, 1876 



A garden here — May breath and bloom of spring - 
The cuckoo yonder from an English elm 
Crying, ' With my false egg I overwhelm 
The native nest ; ' and fancy hears the ring 



774 



HAROLD 



ACT I 



Of harness, and that deathful arrow sing, 

And Saxon battle-axe clang on Norman helm. 

Here rose the dragon-banner of our realm ; 

Here fought, here fell, our Norman-slander' d king. 

O Garden blossoming out of English blood ! 

O strange hate-healer Time ! We stroll and stare 

Where might made right eight hundred years ago ; 

Might, right ? ay, good, so all things make for good — 

But he and he, if soul be soul, are where 

Each stands full face with all he did below. 



DRAMATIS PERSONS 



Sons of Godwin. 



Kinxj Edward the Confessor. 

Stigand, created Archbishop of Canterbury by the Antipope Benedict. 

Aldred, Archbishop of York. 

The Norman Bishop of London. 

Harold, Earl of Wessex, afterwards King of England 

Tostig, Earl of Northumbria 

Gurth, Earl of East Anglia 

Leofwin, Earl of Kent and Essex 

wulfnoth 

Count William of Normandy. 

William Rufus. 

William Malet, a Norman Noble. 1 

Edwin, Earl of Mercia ) Q - A1 ~ ~ ,-- . 

Morcar, Earl of Northumbria after Tostig \ Sons of Alfgarof Ueraa. 

Gamel, a Northumbrian Thane. 

Guy, Count of Ponthieu. 

Rolf, a Ponthieu Fisherman. 

Hugh Margot, a Norman Monk. 

Osgod and Athelric, Canons from Waliham. 

The Queen, Edward the Confessor's Wife, Daughter of Godwin. 

Aldwyth, Daughter of Alfgar and widow of Grijfyth, King of Wales. 

Edith, Ward of King Edward. 

Courtiers, Earls and Thanes, Men-at-Arms, Canons of Waltham, Fishermen, etc. 



Scene I. 



HAROLD 

ACT I 

- London. 
Palace 



The King's 



(A comet seen through the open window.) 

Aldwyth, Gamel, Courtiers talking 
together. 

First Courtier. Lo ! there once more 
— this is the seventh night ! 
Yon grimly-glaring, treble-brandish' d 

scourge 
Of England ! 

Second Courtier. Horrible ! 



1 . . . quidam partim Normannus et Anglus 
Compater Heraldi. (Guy of Amiens, 587.) 



First Courtier. Look you, there 's a 

star 

That dances in it as mad with agony ! 

Third Courtier. Ay, like a spirit in 

hell who skips and flies 

To right and left, and cannot scape'the 

flame. 
. Second Courtier. Steam' d upward 
from the undescendible 
Abysm. 
First Courtier. Or floated downward 
from the throne 8 

Of God Almighty. 

Aldwyth. Gamel, son of Orm, 

What thinkest thou this means ? 
Gamel. War, my dear lady ! 

Aldwyth. Doth this affright thee ? 
Gamel. Mightily, my dear lady ! 



SCENE I 



HAROLD 



775 



Aldwyth. Stand by me then, and 
look upon my face, 12 

Not on the comet. 

Enter Morcar. 

Brother ! why so pale ? 

Morcar. It glares in heaven, it flares 

upon the Thames, 

The people are as thick as bees below, 

They hum like bees, — they cannot 

speak — for awe ; 
Look to the skies, then to the river, 

strike 
Their hearts, and hold their babies up 

to it. 
I think that they would Molochize 

them too, 
To have the heavens clear. 

Aldwyth. They fright not me. 

Enter Leofwin, after him Gurth. 

Ask thou Lord Leofwin what he thinks 

of this ! 21 

Morcar. Lord Leofwin, dost thou 

believe that these 

Three rods of blood-red fire up yonder 

mean 
The doom of England and the wrath 
of Heaven ? 
Bishop of London (passing). Did ye 
not cast with bestial violence 
Our holy Norman bishops down from 

all 
Their thrones in England ? I alone re- 
main. 
Why should not Heaven be wroth ? 
Leofwin. With us, or thee ? 

Bishop of London. Did ye not outlaw 
your archbishop Robert, 
Robert of Jumieges — well-nigh mur- 
der him too ? 30 
Is there no reason for the wrath of 
Heaven ? 
Leofioin. Why, then the wrath of 
Heaven hath three tails, 
The devil only one. 

[Exit Bishop of London. 
Enter Archbishop Stigand. 

Ask our archbishop. 
Stigand should know the purposes of 
Heaven. 
Stigand. Not I. I cannot read the 
face of heaven ; 
Perhaps our vines will grow the better 
for it. 
Leofwin (laughing). He can but read 
the King's face on his coins. 



Stigand. Ay, ay, young lord, there 

the King's face is power. 
Gurth. O father, mock not at a pub- 
lic fear, 

But tell us, is this pendent hell in hea- 
ven 40 

A harm to England ? 

Stigand. Ask it of King Edward ! 

And he may tell thee I am a harm to 
England. 

Old uncanonical Stigand — ask of me 

Who had my pallium from an Anti- 
pope ! 

Not he the man — for in our windy 
world 

What's up is faith, what's down is 
heresy. 

Our friends, the Normans, holp to 
shake his chair. 

I have a Norman fever on me, son, 

And cannot answer sanely. — What it 
means ? 

Ask our broad earl. 

[Pointing to Harold, who enters. 

Harold (seeing Gamel). Hail, Gamel, 

son of Orm ! 50 

Albeit no rolling stone, my good friend 
Gamel, 

Thou hast rounded since we met. Thy 
life at home 

Is easier than mine here. Look ! am I 
not 

Work- wan, flesh-fallen? 

Gamel. Art thou sick, good earl ? 
Harold. Sick as an autumn swallow 
for a voyage, 

Sick for an idle week of hawk and 
hound 

Beyond the seas — a change ! When 
earnest thou hither ? 
Gamel. To-day, good earl. 
Harold. Is the North quiet, Gamel ? 
Gamel. Nay, there be murmurs, for 
thy brother breaks us 

With over- taxing — quiet, ay, as yet — 

Nothing as yet. 

Harold. Stand by him, mine old 
friend, 61 

Thou art a great voice in Northumber- 
land ! 

Advise him ; speak him sweetly, he 
will hear thee. 

He is passionate, but honest. Stand 
thou by him ! 

More talk of this to-morrow, if yon 
weird sign 



776 



HAROLD 



ACT I 



-Well, 



Not blast us in our dreams, 

father Stigand — 

[To Stigand, who advances to him. 

Stigand (pointing to the comet). War 

there, my son ? is that the doom 

of England ? 
Harold. Why not the doom of all the 

world as well ? 
For all the world sees it as well as 

England. 
These meteors came and went before 

our day, 70 

Not harming any ; it threatens us no 

more 
Than French or Norman. War ? the 

worst that follows 
Things that seem jerk'd out of the 

common rut 
Of Nature is the hot religious fool, 
Who, seeing war in heaven, for hea- 
ven's credit 
Makes it on earth — but look, where 

Edward draws 
A faint foot hither, leaning upon Tos- 

tig. 
He hath learnt to love our Tostig 

much of late. 
Leofwin. And he hath learnt, despite 

the tiger in him, 
To sleek and supple himself to the 

King's hand. 80 

Gurth. I trust the kingly touch that 

cures the evil 
May serve to charm the tiger out of 

him. 
Leofwin. He hath as much of cat as 

tiger in him. 
Our Tostig loves the hand and not the 

man. 
Harold. Nay ! Better die than lie ! 
Enter King, Queen, and Tostig. 
Edward. In heaven signs ! 

Signs upon earth ! signs everywhere ! 

your priests 
Gross, worldly, simoniacal, unlearn'd ! 
They scarce can read their Psalter ; 

and your churches 
Uncouth, unhandsome, while in Nor- 

manland 
God speaks thro' abler voices, as He 

dwells 90 

In statelier shrines. I say not this, as 

being 
Half Norman-blooded, nor, as some 
have held, 



Because I love the Norman better — 

no, 
But dreading God's revenge upon this 

realm 
For narrowness and coldness ; and I 

say it 
For the last time perchance, before I go 
To find the sweet refreshment of the 

Saints. 
I have lived a life of utter purity ; 
I have builded the great church of 

Holy Peter ; 
I have wrought miracles — to God the 

glory ! — 100 

And miracles will in my name be 

wrought 
Hereafter. — I have fought the fight 

and go — 
I see the flashing of the gates of 

pearl — 
And it is well with me, tho' some of 

you 
Have scorn'd me — ay — but after I 

am gone 
Woe, woe to England ! I have had a 

vision ; 
The Seven Sleepers in the cave at 

Ephesus 
Have turn'd from right to left. 

Harold. My most dear master, 

What matters ? let them turn from 

left to right 
And sleep again. 

Tostig. Too hardy with thy King ! 
A life of prayer and fasting well may 

see in 

Deeper into the mysteries of heaven 
Than thou, good brother. 

Aldwyth (aside). Sees he into thine, 
That thou wouldst have his promise 

for the crown ? 
Edward. Tostig says true ; my son, 

thou art too hard. 
Not stagger'd by this ominous earth 

and heaven ; 
But heaven and earth are threads of 

the same loom, 
Play into one another, and weave the 

web 
That may confound thee yet. 

Harold. Nay, I trust not, 

For I have served thee long and hon- 
estly. 120 
Edward. I know it, son ; I am not 

thankless ; thou 



SCENE I 



HAROLD 



777 



Hast broken all my foes, lighten'd for 

me 
The weight of this poor crown, and 

left me time 
And peace for prayer to gain a better 

one. 
Twelve years of service ! England 

loves thee for it. 
Thou art the man to rule her ! 

Aldwyth {aside). So, not Tostig ! 
Harold. And after those twelve 
years a boon, my King, 
Kespite, a holiday, — thyself wast 

wont 
To love the chase, — thy leave to set 

my feet 
On board, and hunt and hawk beyond 
the seas ! 130 

Edward. What, with this flaming 

horror overhead ? 
Harold, Well, when it passes then. 
Edward. Ay, if it pass. 

Go not to Normandy — go not to Nor- 
mandy. 
Harold. And wherefore not, my 
King, to Normandy ? 
Is not my brother Wulfnoth hostage 

there 
For my dead father's loyalty to thee ? 
I pray thee, let me hence and bring 
him home. 
Edward. Not thee, my son ; some 

other messenger. 

Harold. And why not me, my lord, 

to Normandy ? 

Is not the Norman Count thy friend 

and mine ? 140 

Edward. I pray thee, do not go to 

Normandy. 
Harold. Because my father drove 
the Normans out 
Of England ? — That was many a 

summer gone — 
Forgotten and forgiven by them and 
thee. 
Edicard. Harold, I will not yield 

thee leave to go. 
Harold. Why, then to Flanders. I 
will hawk and hunt 
In Flanders. 

Edward. Be there not fair woods 
and fields 
In England? Wilful, wilful! Go — 

the Saints 
Pilot and prosper all thy wandering 
out 



And homeward ! — Tostig, I am faint 
again. — i 5 o 

Son Harold, I will in and pray for 
thee. 
[Exit, leaning on Tostig, and 
followed by Stigand, Morcar, and 
Courtiers. 
Harold. What lies upon the mind 
of our good King, 
That he should harp this way on Nor- 
mandy ? 
Queen. Brother, the King is wiser 
than he seems ; 
And Tostig knows it ; Tostig loves 
the King. 
Harold. And love should know ; 
and — be the King so wise, — 
Then Tostig too were wiser than he 

seems. 
I love the man, but not his phantasies. 
Re-enter Tostig 

Well, brother, 

When didst thou hear from thy North- 

umbria ? 

Tostig. When did I hear aught but 

this ' When ' from thee ? 160 

Leave me alone, brother, with my 

Northumbria ; 
She is my mistress, let me look to her ! 
The King hath made me earl ; make 

me not fool ! 
Nor make the King a fool, who made 
me earl ! 
Harold. No, Tostig — lest I make 
myself a fool 
Who made the King who made thee 
make thee earl. 
Tostig. Why chafe me then ? Thou 

knowest I soon go wild. 
Gurth. Come, come ! as yet thou 
art not gone so wild 
But thou canst hear the best and wisest 
of us. 
Harold. So says old Gurth, not I ; 
yet hear ! thine earldom, 170 
Tostig, hath been a kingdom. Their 

old crown 
Is yet a force among them, a sun set 
But leaving light enough for Alfgar'a 

house 
To strike thee down by — nay, this 

ghastly glare 
May heat their fancies. 

Tostig. My most worthy brother, 
Thou art the quietest man in all the 
world — 



77 8 



HAROLD 



ACT I 



Ay, ay, and wise in peace and great in 

war — 
Pray God the people choose thee for 

their king ! 
But all the powers of the house of 

Godwin 
Are not enframed in thee. 

Harold. Thank the Saints, no ! 180 
But thou hast drain' d them shallow 

by thy tolls, 
And thou art ever here about the 

King. 
Thine absence well may seem a want 

of care. 
Cling to their love ; for, now the sons 

of Godwin 
Sit topmost in the field of England, 

envy, 
Like the rough bear beneath the tree, 

good brother, 
Waits till the man let go. 

Tostig. Good counsel truly ! 

I heard from my Northumbria yester- 
day. 
Harold. How goes it then with thy 

Northumbria ? Well ? 
Tostig. And wouldst thou that it 
went aught else than well ? 190 
Harold. I would it went as well as 
with mine earldom, 
Leof win's and Gurth' s. 

Tostig. Ye govern milder men. 

Gurth. We have made them milder 

by just government. 
Tostig. Ay, ever give yourselves 

your own good word. 
Leof win. An honest gift, by all the 
Saints, if giver 
And taker be but honest ! but they 

bribe 
Each other, and so often, an honest 

world 
Will not believe them. 

Harold. I may tell thee, Tostig, 
I heard from thy Northumberland to- 
day. 
Tostig. From spies of thine to spy 
my nakedness 200 

In my poor North. 

Harold. There is a movement there, 
A blind one — nothing yet. 

Tostig. Crush it at once 

With all the power I have ! — I must 

— I will ! — 
Crush it half-born ! Full still ? or 
wisdom there, 



My wise head-shaking Harold ? 

Harold. Make not thou 

The nothing something. Wisdom 

when in power 
And wisest should not frown as Power, 

but smile 
As kindness, watching all, till the true 

must 
Shall make her strike as Power : but 

when to strike — 

Tostig, O dear brother — if they 

prance, 210 

Rein in, not lash them, lest they rear 

and run 
And break both neck and axle. 

Tostig. Good again ! 

Good counsel tho' scarce needed. 

Pour not water 
In the full vessel running out at top 
To swamp the house. 

Leof win. Nor thou be a wild thing 
Out of the waste, to turn and bite the 

hand 
Would help thee from the trap. 

Tostig. Thou playest in tune. 

Leof win. To the deaf adder thee, 

that wilt not dance 
However wisely charm'd. 

Tostig. No more, no more \ 

Gurth. I likewise cry 'no more.' 

Unwholesome talk 220 

For Godwin's house ! Leofwin, thou 

hast a tongue ! 
Tostig, thou look'st as thou wouldst 

spring upon him. 
Saint Olaf , not while I am by ! Come, 

come, 
Join hands, let brethren dwell in unity ; 
Let kith and kin stand close as our 

shield-wall, 
Who breaks us then ? I say, thou 

hast a tongue, 
And Tostig is not stout enough to bear 

it. 
Vex him not, Leofwin. 

Tostig. No, I am not vext, — 

Altho' ye seek to vex me, one and all. 

1 have to make report of my good 

earldom 230 

To the good King who gave it — not 

to you — 
Not any of you. — I am not vext at all. 
Harold. The King? the King is 

ever at his prayers : 
In all that handles matter of the state 
I am the King. 



SCENE II 



HAROLD 



779 



Tostig. That shalt thou never be 
If I can thwart thee. 
Harold. Brother, brother ! 

Tostig. Away ! 

[Exit Tostig. 
Queen. Spite of this grisly star ye 

three must gall 
Poor Tostig. 
Leofwin. Tostig, sister, galls him- 
self ; 
He cannot smell a rose but pricks his 

nose 
Against the thorn, and rails against 

the rose. 240 

Queen. I am the only rose of all 

the stock 
That never thorn'd him ; Edward 

loves him, so 
Ye hate him. Harold always hated 

him. 
Why — how they fought when boys 

— and, Holy Mary ! 
How Harold used to beat him ! 

Harold. Why, boys will fight. 

Leofwin would often fight me, and I 

beat him. 
Even old Gurth would fight. I had 

much ado 
To hold mine own against old Gurth. 

Old Gurth, 
We fought like great States for grave 

cause ; but Tostig — 
On a sudden — at a something — for a 

nothing — 250 

The boy would fist me hard, and 

when we fought 
I conquer'd, and he loved me none 

the less, 
Till thou wouldst get him all apart, 

and tell him 
That where he was but worsted he 

was wrong'd. 
Ah ! thou hast taught the King to 

spoil him too ; 
Now the spoilt child sways both. 

Take heed, take heed ; 
Thou art the Queen ; ye are boy and 

girl no more. 
Side not with Tostig in any violence, 
Lest thou be sideways guilty of the 

violence. 
Queen. Come, fall not foul on me. 

I leave thee, brother. 260 

Harold. Nay, my good sister — 
[Exeunt Queen, Harold, Gurth, 

and Leofwin. 



Aldwyth. Gamel, son of Orm, 

What thinkest thou this means ? 

[Pointing to the comet. 
Gamel. War, my dear lady, 

War, waste, plague, famine, all ma- 
lignities. 
Aldwyth. It means the fall of Tos- 
tig from his earldom. 
Gamel. That were too small a mat- 
ter for a comet ! 
Aldwyth. It means the lifting of 

the house of Alfgar. 
Gamel. Too small ! a comet would 

not show for that ! 
Aldwyth. Not small for thee, if 

thou canst compass it. 
Gamel. Thy love ? 
Aldwyth. As much as I can give 
thee, man ; 269 

This Tostig is, or ltke to be, a tyrant. 
Stir up thy people ; oust him ! 

Gamel. And thy love ? 

Aldwyth. As much as thou canst 

bear. 
Gamel. I can bear all, 
And not be giddy. 
Aldwyth. No more now ; to-mor- 
row. 



Scene II 

In the Garden. The King's 
House near London. Sunset 

Edith. Mad for thy mate, passion- 
ate nightingale ! — 

I love thee for it — ay, but stay a 
moment ; 

He can but stay a moment ; he is go- 
ing- 

I fain would hear him coming ! — near 
me — near, 

Somewhere — to draw him nearer with 
a charm 

Like thine to thine ! 

{Singing. ) 

Love is come with a song and a Bmile, 

Welcome Love with a smile and a song. 

Love can stay but a little while. 

Why cannot he stay ? They call him away. 

Ye do him wroii£, ye do him wrong ; u 

Love will stay for a whole Life long. 
Enter Harold. 
Harold. The nightingales in Ha- 
vering-atte-Bow(T 



780 



HAROLD 



ACT I 



Sang out their loves so loud that Ed- 
ward's prayers 
Were deafen'd and he pray'd them 

dumb, and thus 
I dumb thee too, my wingless night- 
ingale ! [Kissing 'tier. 
Edith. Thou art my music ! Would 

their wings were mine 
To follow thee to Flanders ! Must 

thou go ? 
Harold. Not must, but will. It is 

but for one moon. 
Edith. Leaving so many foes in 

Edward's hall 20 

To league against thy weal. The 

Lady Aldwyth 
Was here to-day, and w T hen she 

touch'd on thee 
She stammer'd in her hate ; I am sure 

she hates thee, 
Pants for thy blood. 

Harold. Well, I have given her 

cause — 
I fear no woman. 

Edith. Hate not one who felt 

Some pity for thy hater ! I am 

sure 
Her morning wanted sunlight, she so 

praised 
The convent and lone life — within 

the pale — 
Beyond the passion. Nay — she held 

with Edward, 
At least methought she held with holy 

Edward, 30 

That marriage was half sin. 

Harold. A lesson worth 

Finger and thumb — thus (snaps his 

fingers). 

And my answer to it — 
See here — an interwoven H and E ! 
Take thou this ring ; I will demand 

his ward 
From Edward when I come again. 

Ay, would she ? 
She to shut up my blossom in the 

dark ! 
Thou art my nun, thy cloister in mine 

arms. 
Edith {taking the ring). Yea, but 

Earl Tostig — 
ILirold, That's a truer fear ! 

For if the North take fire, I should be 

back ; 
I shall be, soon enough. 

Edith. Ay, but last night 



An evil dream that ever came and 
went — 41 

Harold. A gnat that vext thy pil- 
low ! Had I been by, 

I would have spoil'd his horn. My 
girl, what w r as it ? 
Edith. O that thou wert not going ! 

For so methought it was our marriage- 
morn, 

And while we stood together, a dead 
man 

Rose from behind the altar, tore away 

My marriage ring, and rent my bridal 
veil ; 

And then I turn'd, and saw the church 
all fill'd 

With dead men upright from their 
graves, and all 50 

The dead men made at thee to mur- 
der thee. 

But thou didst back thyself against a 
pillar, 

And strike among them with thy bat- 
tle-axe — 

There, what a dream ! 
Harold. Well, well — a dream — no 

more ! 
Edith. Did not Heaven speak to 

men in dreams of old ? 
Harold. Ay — well — of old. I 
tell thee what, my child ; 

Thou hast misread this merry dream 
of thine. 

Taken the rifted pillars of the wood 

For smooth stone columns of the 
sanctuary, 

The shadows of a hundred fat dead 
deer 60 

For dead men's ghosts. True, that 
the battle-axe 

Was out of place ; it should have been 
the bow. — 

Come, thou shalt dream no more such 
dreams ; I swear it, 

By mine own eyes — and these two 
sapphires — these 

Twin rubies, that are amulets against 
all 

The kisses of all kind of woman- 
kind 

In Flanders, till the sea shall roll me 
back 

To tumble at thy feet. 

Edith. That would but shame me, 

Rather than make me vain. The sea 
may roll 



SCENE II 



HAROLD 



781 



Sand, shingle, shore- weed, not the liv- 
ing rock 70 

Which guards the land. 
Harold. Except it be a soft 

one, 

And under- eaten to the fall. Mine 
amulet — 

This last — upon thine eyelids, to shut 
in 

A happier dream. Sleep, sleep, and 
thou shalt see 

My greyhounds fleeting like a beam of 
light, 

And hear my peregrine and her bells 
in heaven ; 

And other bells on earth, which yet 
are heaven's ; 

Guess what they be. 
Edith. He cannot guess who knows. 

Farewell, my king. 
Harold. Not yet, but then — my 
queen. [Exeunt. 

Enter Aldwyth from the thicket. 

Aldwyth. The kiss that charms thine 

eyelids into sleep 80 

Will hold mine waking. Hate him ? I 

could love him 
More, tenfold, than this fearful child 

can do ; 
Griffyth I hated ; why not hate the 

foe 
Of England ? Griffyth, when I saw him 

flee, 
Chased deer-like up his mountains, all 

the blood 
That should have only pulsed for 

Griffyth beat 
For his pursuer. I love him, or think 

I love him. 
If he were King of England, I his 

queen, 
I might be sure of it. Nay, I do love 

him. — 
She must be cloister' d somehow, lest 

the king 90 

Should yield his ward to Harold's will. 

What harm ? 
She hath but blood enough to live, not 

love. — 
When Harold goes and Tostig, shall I 

play 
The craftier Tostig with him ? fawn 

upon him ? 
Chime in with all ? * O thou more saint 

than king!' 



And that were true enough. ' O blessed 

relics ! ' 
1 O Holy Peter ! ' If he found me thus, 
Harold might hate me; he is broad 

and honest, 
Breathing an easy gladness — not like 

Aldwyth — 
For which I strangely love him. 

Should not England 100 

Love Aldwyth, if she stay the feuds 

that part 
The sons of Godwin from the sons of 

Alfgar 
By such a marrying ? Courage, noble 

Aldwyth ! 
Let all thy people bless thee ! 

Our wild Tostig, 
Edward hath made him earl ; he would 

be king. 
The dog that snapt the shadow dropt 

the bone. 
I trust he may do well, this Gamel, 

whom 
I play upon, that he may play the 

note 
Whereat the dog shall howl and run, 

and Harold 
Hear the King's music, all alone with 

him, no 

Pronounced his heir of England. 
I see the goal and half the way to it. — 
Peace-lover is our Harold for the sake 
Of England's wholeness — so — to 

shake the North 
With earthquake and disruption — 

some division — 
Then fling mine own fair person in the 

gap 
A sacrifice to Harold, a peace-offering, 
A scapegoat marriage — all the sins of 

both 
The houses on mine head — then a fair 

life 
And bless the Queen of England ! 
Morcar {coming from the thicket). Art 

thou assured 120 

By this, that Harold loves but Edith ? 

Aldwyth. Morcar ! 

Why creep'st thou like a timorous 

beast of prey 
Out of the bush by night ? 
Morcar. I follow'd thee. 

Aldwyth. Follow my lead, and I will 

make thee earl. 
Morcar. What lead then ? 
Aldwyth. Thou shalt flash it secretly 



782 



HAROLD 



ACT II 



Among the good Northumbrian folk, 
that I — 

That Harold loves me — yea, and pres- 
ently 

That I and Harold are betroth' d — and 
last — 

Perchance that Harold wrongs me ; 
tho' I would not 129 

That it should come to that. 
Morcar. I will both flash 

And thunder for thee. 
Aldwyth. I said ' secretly ; ' 

It is the flash that murders, the poor 
thunder 

Never harm'd head. 

Morcar. But thunder may bring 
down 

That which the flash hath stricken. 
Aldwyth. Down with Tostig ! 

That first of all. —And when doth 
Harold go ? 
Morcar. To-morrow — first to Bo- 
sham, then to Flanders. 
Aldwyth. Not to come back till Tos- 
tig shall have shown 

And redden'd with his people's blood 
the teeth 

That shall be broken by us — yea, and 
thou 

Chair' d in his place. Good-night, and 
dream thyself 140 

Their chosen earl. [Exit Aldwyth. 
Morcar. Earl first, and after that 

Who knows I may not dream myself 
their king ? 



ACT II 

Scene I. — Seashore. Ponthieu. 
Night. 

Harold and his Men, wrecked. 

Harold. Friends, in that last inhos- 
pitable plunge 

Our boat hath burst her ribs ; but ours 
are whole ; 

I have but bark'd my hands. 

Attendant. I dug mine into 

My old fast friend the shore, and cling- 
ing thus 

Felt the remorseless outdraught of the 
deep 

Haul like a great strong fellow at my 
legs, 



And then I rose and ran. The blast 

that came 
So suddenly hath fallen as suddenly — 
Put thou the comet and this blast to- 
gether — 

Harold. Put thou thyself and mo- 
ther-wit together. 10 
Be not a fool ! 

Enter Fishermen with torches, Har- 
old going up to one of them, Rolf. 
Wicked sea- will-o'-the-wisp ! 
Wolf of the shore ! dog, with thy ly iug 

lights 
Thou hast betray'd us on these rocks 
of thine ! 

Rolf. Ay, but thou liest as loud as 
the black herring-pond behind thee. 
We be fishermen ; I came to see after 
my nets. 

Harold. To drag us into them. Fish- 
ermen ? devils! 
Who, while ye fish for men with your 

false fires, 
Let the great devil fish for your own 
souls. 20 

Rolf. Nay then, we be liker the 
blessed Apostles ; they were fishers of 
men. Father Jean says. 

Harold. I had liefer that the fish had 
swallowed me, 
Like Jonah, than have known there 

were such devils. 
What 's to be done ? 

[To his Men — goes apart with them. 

Fisherman. Rolf, what fish did swal- 
low Jonah ? 

Rolf. A whale ! 29 

Fisherman. Then a whale to a whelk 
we have swallowed the King of Eng- 
land. I saw him over there. Look thee, 
Rolf, when I was down in the fever, 
she was down with the hunger, and 
thou didst stand by her and give her 
thy crabs, and set her up again, till 
now, by the patient Saints, she's as 
crabb'd as ever. 

Rolf. And I '11 give her my crabs 
again, when thou art down again. 40 

Fisherman. I thank thee, Rolf. Run 
thou to Count Guy ; he is hard at 
hand. Tell him what hath crept into 
our creel, and he will fee thee as freely 
as he will wrench this outlander's ran- 
som out of him — and why not ? for 
what right had he to get himself 
wrecked on another man's land ? 



SCENE II 



HAROLD 



783 



Rolf. Thou art the human-hearted- 
est, Christian -chariti est of all crab- 
catchers. Share and share alike ! 51 

{Exit. 
Harold {to Fisherman). Fellow, dost 

thou catch crabs ? 
Fisherman. As few as I may in a 
wind, and less than I would in a calm. 
Ay! 

Harold. I have a mind that thou 

shalt catch no more. 
Fisherman. How ? 
Harold. I have a mind to brain thee 
with mine axe. 58 

Fisherman. Ay, do, do, and our 
great count-crab will make his nippers 
meet in thine heart ; he '11 sweat it out 
of thee, he '11 sweat it out of thee ! 
Look, he 's here ! He '11 speak for 
himself. Hold thine own, if thou 
canst ! 
Enter Guy, Count of Ponthieu. 
Harold. Guy, Count of Ponthieu ? 
Guy. Harold, Earl of Wessex ! 

Harold. Thy villains with their ly- 
ing lights have wreck'd us! 
Guy. Art thou not Earl of Wessex ? 
Harold. In mine earldom 

A man may hang gold bracelets on a 

bush, 
And leave them for a year, and com- 
ing back 70 
Find them again. 

Gay. Thou art a mighty man 

In thine own earldom ! 

Harold. Were such murderous liars 
In Wessex — if I caught them, they 

should hang 
Cliff-gibbeted for sea-marks, our sea- 
mew 
Winging their only wail ! 

Guy. Ay, but my men 

Hold that the shipwreckt are accursed 

of God ; — 
What hinders me to hold with mine 
own men ? 
Harold. The Christian manhood of 

the man who reigns ! 
Guy. Ay, rave thy worst, but in 
our oubliettes 
Thou shalt rot or ransom. — Hale him 
hence ! 80 

[To one of his Attendants. 
Fly thou to William ; tell him we 
have Harold. 



Scene II 

Bayeux. Palace 

Count William and William 
Malet. 

William. We hold our Saxon wood- 
cock in the springe, 
But he begins to nutter. As I think 
He was thine host in England when I 

went 
To visit Edward. 

Malet. Yea, and there, my lord, 

To make allowance for their rougher 

. fashions, 
I found him all a noble host should be. 
William. Thou art his friend. Thou 

know'st my claim on England 
Thro' Edward's promise. We have 

him in the toils ; 
And it were well if thou shouldst let 

him feel 
How dense a fold of danger nets him 

round, 10 

So that he bristle himself against my 

will. 
Malet. What would I do, my lord, 

if I were you ? 
William. What wouldst thou do ? 
Malet. ' My lord, he is thy guest. 
William. Nay, by the splendor of 

God, no guest of mine. 
He came not to see me, had past me by 
To hunt and hawk elsewhere, save 

for the fate 
Which hunted him when that un- 

Saxon blast, 
And bolts of thunder moulded in high 

heaven 
To serve the Norman purpose, drave 

and crack'd 
His boat on Ponthieu beach ; where 

our friend Guy 20 

Had wrung his ransom from him by 

the rack, 
But that I stept between aud pur- 
chased him, 
Translating his captivity from Guy 
To mine own hearth at Bayeux, where 

he sits 
My ransom'd prisoner. 

Malet. Well, if not with gold. 

With golden deeds and iron strokes 

that brought 



7 8 4 



HAROLD 



ACT II 



Thy war with Brittany to a goodlier 

close 
Than else had been, he paid his ran- 
som back. 
William. So that henceforth they 

are not like to league 29 

With Harold against me. 

Malet. A marvel, how 

He from the liquid sands of Coesnon 
Haled thy shore-swallow'd, arrnor'd 

Normans up 
To fight for thee again ! 

William. Perchance against 

Their saver, save thou save him from 

himself. 
Malet. But I should let him home 

again, my lord. 
William. Simple! let fly the bird 

within the hand, 
To catch the bird again within the 

bush ! 
No. 
Smooth thou my way, before he clash 

with me ; 
I want his voice in England for the 

crown, 40 

I want thy voice with him to bring 

him round ; 
And being brave he must be subtly 

cow'd, 
And being truthful wrought upon to 

swear 
Vows that he dare not break. Eng- 
land our own 
Thro' Harold's help, he shall be my 

dear friend 
As well as thine, and thou thyself 

shalt have 
Large lordship there of lands and ter- 
ritory. 
Malet. I knew thy purpose ; he and 

Wulfnoth never 
Have met, except in public ; shall 

they meet 
In private ? I have often talk'd with 

Wulfnoth, 50 

And stuff'd the boy with fears, that 

these may act 
On Harold when they meet. 

William. Then let them meet ! 

Malet. I can but love this noble, 

honest Harold. 
Will ia in. Love him ! why not ? thine 

is a loving office, 
I have commission'd thee to save the 

man. 



Help the good ship, showing the 

sunken rock, 
Or he is wreckt for ever. 

Enter William Rufus. 
William Rufus. Father. 
William. Well, boy. 

William Rufus. They have taken 
away the toy thou gavest me, 
The Norman knight. 

William. Why, boy ? 
William Rufus. Because I broke 
The horse's leg — it was mine own to 
break ; 60 

I like to have my toys, and break 
them too. 
William. Well, thou shalt have an- 
other Norman knight. 
William Rufus. And may I break 

his legs ? 
William. Yea, — get thee gone ! 
William Rufus. I '11 tell them I 
have had my way with thee. 

[Exit. 
Malet. I never knew thee check thy 
will for aught 
Save for the prattling of thy little 
ones. 
William. Who shall be kings of 
England. I am heir 
Of England by the promise of her king. 
Malet. But there the great Assem- 
bly choose their king, 
The choice of England is the voice of 
England. 7° 

William. I will be King of England 
by the laws, 
The choice, and voice of England. 
Malet. Can that be ? 

William. The voice of any people 
is the sword 
That guards them, or the sword that 

beats them down. 
Here comes the would-be what I will 

be — kinglike . . . 
Tho' scarce at ease ; for, save our 

meshes break, 
More kinglike he than like to prove a 

king. 
Enter Harold, musing, with his eyes 

on the ground. 
He sees me not — and yet he dreams 

of me. 
Earl, wilt thou fly my falcons this fair 

day? 
They are of the best, strong-wing'd 
against the wind. 80 



SCENE II 



HAROLD 



785 



Harold {looking up suddenly, having 

caught but the last word). Which 

way does it blow ? 
William. Blowing for England, ha ? 
Not yet. Thou hast not learnt thy 

quarters here. 
The winds so cross and jostle among 

these towers. 
Harold. Count of the Normans, thou 

hast ransom'd us, 
Maintain'd, and entertain' d us royally ! 
William. And thou for us hast 

fought as loyally, 
Which binds us friendship-fast for 

ever! 
Harold. Good ! 
But lest we turn the scale of courtesy 
By too much pressure on it, I would 

fain, 
Since thou hast promised Wulfnoth 

home with us, 90 

Be home again with Wulfnoth. 

William. Stay — as yet 

Thou hast but seen how Norman 

hands can strike, 
But walk'd our Norman field, scarce 

touch'd or tasted 
The splendors of our court. 

Harold. I am in no mood ; 

I should be as the shadow of a cloud 
Crossing your light. 

William. Nay, rest a week or two. 
And we will fill thee full of Norman 

sun, 
And send thee back among thine is- 
land mists 
With laughter. 
Harold. Count, I thank thee, but 

had rather 
Breathe the free wind from off our 

Saxon downs, 100 

Tho' charged with all the wet of all 

the west. 
William. Why if thou wilt, so let 

it be — thou shalt. 
That were a graceless hospitality 
To chain the free guest to the ban- 
quet-board : 
To-morrow we will ride with thee to 

Harfleur, 
And see thee shipt, and pray in thy 

behalf 
For happier homeward winds than 

that which crack' d 
Thy bark at Ponthieu, — yet to us, in 

faith, 



A happy one — whereby we came to 
know 

Thy valor and thy value, noble earl, no 

Ay, and perchance a happy one for 
thee, 

Provided — I will go with thee to- 
morrow — 

Nay — but there be conditions, easy 
ones, 

So thou, fair friend, will take them 
easily. 

Enter Page. 

Page. My lord, there is a post from 
over seas 
With news for thee. [Exit Page. 

William. Come, Malet, let us hear I 
[Exeunt Count William and Malet. 
Harold. Conditions? What condi- 
tions ? pay him back 
His ransom ? ' easy ' — that were easy 

— nay — 

No money -lover he ! What said the 

king ? 

I pray you do not go to Normandy/ 

And fate hath blown me hither, bound 

me too 121 

With bitter obligation to the Count — 

Have I not fought it out ? What did 

he mean ? 
There lodged a gleaming grimness in 

his eyes, 
Gave his shorn smile the lie. The 

walls oppress me, 
And yon huge keep that hinders half 

the heaven. 
Free air ! free field ! 

Moms to go out. A Man at-arms 
follows him. 
Harold {to the Man-at-arms). I need 
thee not. Why dost thou fol- 
low me ? 
Man-at-arms. I have the Count's 

commands to follow thee. 
Harold. What then ? Am I in 
danger in this court ? 130 

Man-at-arms. I cannot tell. I have 

the Count's commands. 
Harold. Stand out of earshot then, 
and keep me still 
In eyeshot. 
Man-at-arms. Yea, lord Harold. 

[ Withdra to*. 
Harold. And arm'd men 

Ever keep watch beside my chamber 
door, 



786 



HAROLD 



ACT II 



And if I walk within the lonely wood, 
There is an arm'd man ever glides be- 
hind ! 

Enter Malet. 
Why am I f ollow'd, haunted, harass'd, 

watch' d ? 
See yonder ! 

[Pointing to the Man-at-arms. 
Malet. 'T is the good Count's care 
for thee ! 
The Normans love thee not, nor thou 

the Normans, 
Or — so they deem. 

Harold. But wherefore is the wind, 

Which way soever the vane-arrow 

swing, 141 

Not ever fair for England ? Why, but 

now 
He said — thou heard' st him — that I 

must not hence 
Save on conditions. 

Malet. So in truth he said. 

Harold. Malet, thy mother was an 
Englishwoman ; 
There somewhere beats an English 
pulse in thee ! 
Malet. Well — for my mother's sake 
I love your England, 
But for my father I love Normandy. 
Harold. Speak for thy mother's 

sake, and tell me true. 

Malet. Then for my mother's sake, 

and England's sake 150 

That suffers in the daily want of thee, 

Obey the Count's conditions, my good 

friend. 

Harold. How, Malet, if they be not 

honorable ! 
Malet. Seem to obey them. 
Harold. Better die than lie ! 

Malet. Choose therefore whether 
thou wilt have thy conscience 
White as a maiden's hand, or whether 

England 
Be shatter'd into fragments. 

Harold. News from England? 

Malet. Morcar and Edwin have 
stirr'd up the thanes 
Against thy brother Tostig's govern- 
ance; 
And all the North of Humber is one 
storm. 160 

Harold. I should be there, Malet, I 

should be there ! 
Malet. And Tostig in his own hall 
on suspicion 



Hath massacred the thane that was 

his guest, 
Gamel, the son of Orm ; and there be 

more 
As villainously slain. 

Harold. The wolf ! the beast ! 

Ill news for guests, ha, Malet ! More ? 

What more ? 
What do they say ? did Edward know 

of this ? 
Malet. They say his wife was know- 
ing and abetting. 
Harold. They say his wife ! — To 

marry and have no husband 
Makes the wife fool. My God, I 

should be there ! 170 

I '11 hack my way to the sea. 

Malet. Thou canst not, Harold ; 

Our duke is all between thee and the 

sea, 
Our duke is all about thee like a God ; 
All passes block'd. Obey him, speak 

him fair, 
For he is only debonair to those 
That follow where he leads, but stark 

as death 
To those that cross him. — Look thou, 

here is Wulfnoth ! 
I leave thee to thy talk with him 

alone ; 
How wan, poor lad ! how sick and sad 

for home ! [Exit Malet. 

Harold {muttering). Go not to Nor- 
mandy — go not to Nor- 
mandy ! . 180 
Enter Wulfnoth. 
Poor brother ! still a hostage ! 

Wulfnoth. Yea, and I 

Shall see the dewy kiss of dawn no 

more 
Make blush the maiden-white of our 

tall cliffs, 
Nor mark the sea-bird rouse himself 

and hover 
Above the windy ripple, and fill the 

sky 
With free sea-laughter — never — save 

indeed 
Thou canst make yield this iron- 

mooded duke 
To let me go. 

Harold. Why, brother, so he will ; 
But on conditions. Canst thou guess 

at them ? 
Wulfnoth. Draw nearer, — I was in 

the corridor, 190 



SCENE II 



HAROLD 



787 



I saw him coming with his brother 

Odo 
The Bayeux bishop, and I hid myself. 
Harold. They did thee wrong who 

made thee hostage ; thou 
Wast ever fearful. 

Wulfnoth. And he spoke — I heard 

him — 
' This Harold is not of the royal blood, 
Can have no right to the crown ; ' and 

Odo said, 
' Thine is the right, for thine the might ; 

he is here, 
And yonder is thy keep/ 

Harold. No, Wulfnoth, no ! 

Wulfnoth. And William laugh' d 

and swore that might was right, 
Far as he knew in this poor world of 

ours — 200 

* Marry, the Saints must go along 

with us, 
And, brother, we will find a way/ said 

he — 
Yea, yea, he would be King of Eng- 
land. 
Harold. Never ! 
Wulfnoth. Yea, but thou must not 

this way answer him. 
Harold. Is it not better still to speak 

the truth? 
Widfnoih. Not here, or thou wilt 

never hence nor I ; 
For in the racing toward this golden 

goal 
He turns not right or left, but tram- 
ples flat 
Whatever thwarts him ; hast thou 

never heard 
His savagery at Alencon, — the town 
Hung out raw hides along their walls, 

and cried, 211 

' Work for the tanner/ 

Harold. That had anger' d me 

Had I been William. 

Wulfnoth. Nay, but he had prison- 
ers, 
He tore their eyes out, sliced their 

hands away, 
And flung them streaming o'er the 

battlements 
Upon the heads of those who walk'd 

within — 
O, speak him fair, Harold, for thine 

own sake ! 
Harold. Your Welshman says, 'The 

Truth against the World,' 



Much more the truth against myself. 
Wulfnoth. Thyself ? 

But for my sake, O brother ! O, for 

my sake ! 220 

Harold. Poor Wulfnoth ! do they 

not entreat thee well ? 
Wulfnoth. I see the blackness of 
my dungeon loom 

Across their lamps of revel, and be- 
yond 

The merriest murmurs of their ban- 
quet clank 

The shackles that will bind me to the 
wall. 
Harold. Too fearful still. 
Wulfnoth. O, no, no — speak him 
fair ! 

Call it to temporize, and not to lie ; 

Harold, I do not counsel thee to 
lie. 

The man that hath to foil a murder- 
ous aim 

May, surely, play with words. 

Harold. Words are the man. 

Not even for thy sake, brother, would 
I lie. 231 

Wulfnoth. Then for thine Edith ? 
Harold. There thou prick'st me 

deep. 
Wulfnoth. And for our Mother 

England ? 
Harold. Deeper still. 

Wulfnoth. And deeper still the 
deep-down oubliette, 

Down thirty feet below the smiling 
day — 

In blackness — dogs' food thrown up- 
on thy head. 

And over thee the suns arise and set, 

And the lark sings, the sweet stars 
come and go, 

And men are at their markets, in their 
fields, 

And woo their loves and have forgot- 
ten thee ; 240 

And thou art upright in thy living 
grave, 

Where there is barely room to shift 
thy side. 

And all thine England hath forgotten 
thee ; 

And he our lazy-pious Norman King, 

With all his Normans round him once 
again, 

Counts his old beads, and hath forgot 
ten thee. 



;88 



HAROLD 



ACT II 



Harold. Thou art of my blood, and 
so methinks, my boy, 
Thy fears infect me beyond reason. 
Peace ! 
Wulfnoth. And then our fiery 
Tostig, while thy hands 
Are palsied here, if his Northumbrians 
rise 250 

And hurl him from them, — I have 

heard the Normans 
Count upon this confusion — may he 

not make 
A league with William, so to bring 
him back ? 
Harold. That lies within the sha- 
dow of the chance. 
Wulfnoth. And like a river in flood 
thro' a burst dam 
Descends the ruthless Norman — our 

good King 
Kneels mumbling some old bone — 

our helpless folk 
Are wash'd away, wailing, in their 
own blood — 
Harold. Wailing ! not warring ? 
Boy, thou hast forgotten 
That thou art English. 

Wulfnoth. Then our modest wo- 
men — 260 
I know the Norman license — thine 
own Edith — 
Harold. No more ! I will not hear 

thee — William comes. 
Wulfnoth. I dare not well be seen 
in talk with thee. 
Make thou not mention that I spake 
with thee. 
[Moves away to the back of the stage. 

Enter William, Malet, and Offi- 
cers. 

Officer. We have the man that 

rail'd against thy birth. 
William. Tear out his tongue. 
Officer. He shall not rail again. 

He said that he should see confusion 

fall 
On thee and on thine house. 

William. Tear out his eyes, 

And plunge him into prison. 

Officer. It shall be done. 

[Exit Officer. 

William. Look not amazed, fair 

earl ! Better leave undone 270 

Than do by halves — tongueless and 

eyeless, prison' d — 



Harold. Better methinks have slain 

the man at once ! 
William. We have respect for 
man's immortal soul, 
We seldom take man's life, except in 

war ; 
It frights the traitor more to maim 
and blind. 
Harold. In mine own land I should 
have scorn' d the man, 
Or lash'd his rascal back, and let him 
go. 
William. And let him go? To 
slander thee again ! 
Yet in thine own land in thy father's 

day 
They blinded my young kinsman, Al- 
fred — ay, 280 
Some said it was thy father's deed. 
Harold. They lied. 
William. But thou and he — whom 
at thy word, for thou 
Art known a speaker of the truth, I 

free 
From this foul charge — 

Harold. Nay, nay, he freed himself 
By oath and compurgation from the 

charge. 
The King, the lords, the people clear'd 
him of it. 
William. But thou and he drove 
our good Normans out 
From England, and this rankles in us 

yet. 
Archbishop Robert hardly escaped 
with life. 
Harold. Archbishop Robert ! Ro- 
bert the Archbishop ! 290 
Robert of Jumieges, he that — 

Malet. Quiet ! quiet ! 

Harold. Count ! if there sat with- 
in the Norman chair 
A ruler all for England — one who 

fill'd 
All offices, all bishoprics with Eng- 
lish— 
We could not move from Dover to the 

Humber 
Saving thro' Norman bishoprics — I 

say 
Ye would applaud that Norman who 

should drive 
The stranger to the fiends ! 

William. Why, that is reason ! 

Warrior thou art, and mighty wise 
withal ! 



SCENE II 



HAROLD 



789 



Ay, ay, but many among our Norman 

lords 300 

Hate thee for this, and press upon me 

— saying 
God and the sea have given thee to 

our hands 
To plunge thee into lifelong prison 

here ; — 
Yet I hold out against them, as I may, 
Yea — would hold out, yea, tho' they 

should revolt — 
For thou hast done the battle in my 

cause. 
I am thy fastest friend in Normandy. 
Harold. I am doubly bound to 

thee — if this be so. 
William. And I would bind thee 
more, and would myself 309 
Be bounden to thee more. 

Harold. Then let me hence 

With Wulfnoth to King Edward. 

William. So we will. 

We hear he hath not long to live. 
Harold. It may be. 

William. Why then, the heir of 

England, who is he ? 
Harold. The Atheling is nearest 

to the throne. 
William. But sickly, slight, half- 
witted and a child, 
Will England have him king ? 

Harold. It may be, no. 

William. And hath King Edward 

not pronounced his heir ? 
Harold. Not that I know. 
William. When he was here in 

Normandy, 
He loved us and we him, because we 

found him 
A Norman of the Normans. 

Harold. So did we. 

William. A gentle, gracious, pure 

and saintly man ! 321 

And grateful to the hand that shielded 

him, 
He promised that if ever he were 

king 
In England, he would give his kingly 

voice 
To me as his successor. Knowest 
thou this ? 
Harold. I learn it now. 
William. Thou knowest I am his 
cousin, 
And that my wife descends from Al- 
fred? 



Harold, Ay. 

William. Who hath a better claim 
then to the crown ? 
So that ye will not crown the Athe- 
ling? 
Harold. None that I know — if that 
but hung upon 330 

King Edward's will. 

William. Wilt thou uphold my 

claim ? 
Malet {aside to Harold). Be care- 
ful of thine answer, my good 
friend. 
Wulfnoth {aside to Harold). O Har- 
old, for my sake and for thine 
own ! 
Harold. Ay ... if the King have 

not revoked his promise. 
William. But hath he done it then? 
Harold, Not that I know. 

William, Good, good, and thou 

wilt help me to the crown ? 
Harold. Ay — if the Witan will 

consent to this. 
William. Thou art the mightiest 
voice in England, man, 
Thy voice will lead the Witan — shall 
I have it ? 339 

Wulfnoth {aside to Harold). O Har- 
old, if thou love thine Edith, ay. 
Harold. Ay, if — 
Malet {aside to Harold). Thine ' if s ' 

will sear thine eyes out — ay. 
William. I ask thee, wilt thou help 
me to the crown ? 
And I will make thee my great earl 

of earls, 
Foremost in England and in Nor- 
mandy ; 
Thou shalt be verily king — all but 

the name — 
For I shall most sojourn in Normandy ; 
And thou be my vice-king in England. 
Speak. 
Wulfnoth {aside to Harold). Ay, 
brother — for the sake of Eng- 
land — ay. 
Harold. My lord — 
Malet {aside to Harold). Take heed 

now. 
Harold. Ay. 

William. I am content, 

For thou art truthful, and thy word 

thy bond. 350 

To-morrow will we ride with thee to 

Harlleur. [h\vit William. 



79° 



HAROLD 



ACT II 



Malet. Harold, I am thy friend, 
one life with thee, 
And even as I should bless thee sav- 
ing mine, 
I thank thee now for having saved 
thyself. [Exit Malet. 

Harold. For having lost myself to 
save myself, 
Said ' ay ' when I meant ' no,' lied like 

a lad 
That dreads the pendent scourge, said 

1 ay ' for ' no ' ! 
Ay ! No ! — he hath not bound me by 

an oath — 
Is ' ay ' an oath ? is *uy ' strong as an 

oath ? 
Or is it the same sin to break my word 
As break mine oath? He call'd my 
word my bond ! 361 

He is a liar who knows I am a liar, 
And makes believe that he believes 

my word — 
The crime be on his head — not 
bounden — no. 
[Suddenly doors are flung open, 
discovering in an inner hall 
Count William in his state robes, 
seated upon his throne between 
two Bishops, Odo of Bayeux 
being one; in the centre of the 
hall an ark covered with cloth of 
gold, and on either side of it the 
Norman Barons. 
Enter a Jailor before William's 
throne. 
William (to Jailor). Knave, hast 

thou let thy prisoner scape ? 
Jailor. Sir Count, 

He had but one foot, he must have hopt 

away, 
Yea, some familiar spirit must have 
help'd him. 
William. Woe, knave, to thy fa- 
miliar and to thee ! 
Give me thy keys. 

[They fall clashing. 
Nay, let them lie. Stand there and 
wait my will. 37 o 

[ The Jailor stands aside. 
William (to Harold). Hast thou 
such trustless jailors in thy 
North ? 
Harold. We have few prisoners in 
mine earldom there, 
So less chance for false keepers. 
William. We have heard 



Of thy just, mild, and equal govern- 
ance ; 
Honor to thee ! thou art perfect in all 

honor ! 
Thy naked word thy bond ! confirm 

it now 
Before our gather'd Norman baronage, 
For they will not believe thee — as I 
believe. 
[Descends from his throne and 
stands by the ark. 
Let all men here bear witness of our 
bond ! 
[Beckons to Harold, who advances. 
Enter Malet behind him. 
Lay thou thy hand upon this golden 
pall ! 380 

Behold the jewel of Saint Pancratius 
Woven into the gold. Swear thou on 
this ! 
Harold. What should I swear ? 

Why should I swear on this ? 
William (savagely). Swear thou to 
help me to the crown of Eng- 
land. 
Malet (whispering Harold). My 
friend, thou hast gone too far 
to palter now. 
Wulfnoth (whispering Harold). 
Swear thou to-day, to-morrow 
is thine own. 
Harold. I swear to help thee to the 
crown of England 
According as King Edward promises. 
William. Thou must swear abso- 
lutely, noble earl. 
Malet (whispering). Delay is death 
to thee, ruin to England. 390 
Wulfnoth (whispering). Swear, 
dearest brother, I beseech thee, 
swear ! 
Harold {putting his hand on the 
jewel). I swear to help thee to 
the crown of England. 
William. Thanks, truthful earl ; I 
did not doubt thy word, 
But that my barons might believe thy 

word, 
And that the Holy Saints of Normandy 
When thou art home in England, with 

thine own, 
Might strengthen thee in keeping of 

thy word, 
I made thee swear. Show him by 
whom he hath sworn. 
[The two Bishops advance, and 



SCENE I 



HAROLD 



791 



raise the cloth of gold. The bod- 
ies and bones of Saints are seen 
lying in the ark. 

The holy bones of all the canonized 

From all the holiest shrines in Nor- 
mandy ! 400 
Harold. Horrible ! 

[They let the cloth fall again. 
William. Ay, for thou hast sworn 
an oath 

Which, if not kept, would make the 
hard earth rive 

To the very devil's horns, the bright 
sky cleave 

To the very feet of God, and send her 
hosts 

Of injured Saints to scatter sparks of 
plague 

Thro' all your cities, blast your in- 
fants, dash 

The torch of war among your stand- 
ing corn, 

Dabble your hearths with your own 
blood. — Enough ! 

Thou wilt not break it ! I, the count 

— the king 

Thy friend — am grateful for thine 
honest oath, 410 

Not coming fiercely like a conqueror, 
now, 

But softly as a bridegroom to his own. 

For I shall rule according to your 
laws, 

And make your ever- jarring earldoms 
move 

To music and in order — Angle, Jute, 

Dane, Saxon, Norman, help to build 
a throne 

Out-towering hers of France. — The 
wind is fair 

For England now. To-night we will 
be merry. 

To-morrow will I ride with thee to 
Harfleur. 
[Exeunt William and all the Nor- 
man Barons, etc. 
Harold. To-night we will be merry 

— and to-morrow — 420 
Juggler and bastard — bastard — he 

hates that most — 
William the tanner's bastard ! Would 

he heard me ! 
O God, that I were in some wide, 

waste field 
With nothing but my battle-axe and 

him 



To spatter his brains ! Why, let earth 

rive, gulf in 
These cursed Normans — yea, and 

mine own self ! 
Cleave heaven, and send thy Saints 

that I may say 
Even to their faces, ' If ye side with 

William 
Ye are not noble ! ' How their pointed 

fingers 
Glared at me ! Am I Harold, Harold, 

son 43 o 

Of our great Godwin ? Lo ! I touch 

mine arms, 
My limbs — they are not mine — they 

are a liar's — 
I mean to be a liar — I am not bound — 
Stigand shall give me absolution for 

it — 
Did the chest move ? did it move ? I 

am utter craven ! 
O Wulfnoth, Wulfnoth, brother, thou 

hast be tray' d me ! 
Wulfnoth. Forgive me, brother, I 

will live here and die. 
Enter Page. 
Page. My lord ! the duke awaits 

thee at the banquet. 
Harold. Where they eat dead men's 

flesh, and drink their blood. 
Page. My lord — 440 

Harold. I know your Norman cook- 
ery is so spiced, 
It masks all this. 
Page. My lord ! thou art white as 

death. 
Harold. With looking on the dead. 

Am I so white ? 
Thy duke will seem the darker. Hence, 

I follow. [Exeunt. 



ACT III 

Scene I. — The King's Palace. 
London 

King Edward, dying on a conch, and 
by him standing the Queen, Har- 
old, Archbishop Stigand, Gurth, 
Leofwin, Archbishop Aldred, 
Aldwyth, and Edith. 

Stigand. Sleeping or dying there ? 
If this be death, 
Then our great Council wait to crown 
thee kin£ — 



792 



HAROLD 



ACT III 



Come hither, I have a power ; 

[To Harold. 

They call me near, for I am close to 
thee 

And England — I, old shrivell'd Sti- 
gand, I, 

Dry as an old wood-fungus on a dead 
tree, 

I have a power ! 

See here this little key about my neck ! 

There lies a treasure buried down in 
Ely. 

If e'er the Norman grow too hard for 
thee, 10 

Ask me for this at thy most need, son 
Harold, 

At thy most need — not sooner. 

Harold. So I will. 

Stigand. Red gold — a hundred 
purses — yea, and more ! 

If thou canst make a wholesome use of 
these 

To chink against the Norman, I do be- 
lieve 

My old crook' d spine would bud out 
two young wings 

To fly to heaven straight with. 

Harold. Thank thee, father ! 

Thou art English, Edward too is Eng- 
lish now, 

He hath clean repented of his Norman- 
ism. 
Stigand. Ay, as the libertine repents 
who cannot 20 

Make done undone, when thro' his 
dying sense 

Shrills, ' Lost thro' thee ! ' They have 
built their castles here ; 

Our priories are Norman ; the Norman 
adder 

Hath bitten us ; we are poison'd ; our 
dear England 

Is demi-Norman. He ! — 
[Pointing to King Edward, sleeping. 
Harold. I would I were 

As holy and as passionless as he ! 

That I might rest as calmly ! Look at 
him — 

The rosy face, and long down-silvering 
beard, 

The brows unwrinkled as a summer 
mere. — 
Stigand. A summer mere with sud- 
den wreckful gusts 30 

From a side-gorge. Passionless ? How 
he flamed 



When Tostig's anger'd earldom flung 

him, nay, B 

He fain had calcined all Northumbria 
To one black ash, but that thy patriot 

passion, 
Siding with our great Council against 

Tostig, 
Out-passion' d his ! Holy ? ay, ay, for- 
sooth, 
A conscience for his own soul, not his 

realm ; 
A twilight conscience lighted thro' a 

chink ; 
Thine by the sun ; nay, by some sun 

to be. 
When all the world hath learnt to 

speak the truth, 40 

And lying were self-murder by that 

State 
Which was the exception. 
Harold. That sun may God speed ! 
Stigand. Come, Harold, shake the 

cloud off ! 
Harold. Can I, father ? 

Our Tostig parted cursing me and 

England ; 
Our sister hates us for his banishment ; 
He hath gone to kindle Norway against 

England, 
And Wulf noth is alone in Normandy. 
For when I rode with William down 

to Harfleur, 
1 Wulf noth is sick,' he said; 'he can- 
not follow ; ' 
Then with that friendly -fie ndly smile 

of his, 50 

1 We have learnt to love him, let him 

a little longer 
Remain a hostage for the loyalty 
Of Godwin's house.' As far as touches 

Wulfnoth 
I that so prized plain word and naked 

truth 
Have sinn'd against it — all in vain. 

Leofwin. Good brother, 

By all the truths that ever priest hath 

preach'd. 
Of all the lies that ever men have lied, 
Thine is the pardonablest. 

Harold. Maybe so ! 

I think it so, I think I am a fool 
To think it can be otherwise than 

so. 60 

Stigand. Tut, tut, I have absolved 

thee. Dost thou scorn me, 
Because I had my Canterbury pallium 



SCENE I 



HAROLD 



793 



From one whom they dispoped ? 
Harold* No, Stigand, no ! 

Stigand. Is naked truth actable in 

true life ? 
I have heard a saying of thy father 

Godwin, 
That, were a man of state nakedly 

true, 
Men would but take him for the craft- 
ier liar. 
Leofwin. Be men less delicate than 

the devil himself ? 
I thought that naked Truth would 

shame the devil, 
The devilis so modest. 

Gurth. He never said it ! 

Leofwin. Be thou not stupid-honest, 

brother Gurth ! 71 

Harold. Better to be a liar's dog, and 

hold 
My master honest, than believe that 

lying 
And ruling men are fatal twins that 

cannot 
Move one without the other. Edward 

wakes ! — 
Dazed — he hath seen a vision. 

Edward. The green tree ! 

Then a great Angel past along the 

highest 
Crying, ' The doom of England ! ' and 

at once 
He stood beside me, in his grasp a 

sword 
Of lightnings, wherewithal he cleft 

the tree 80 

From off the bearing trunk, and hurl'd 

it from him 
Three fields away, and then he dash'd 

and drench'd, 
He dyed, he soak'd the trunk with 

human blood, 
And brought the sunder'd tree again, 

and set it 
Straight on the trunk, that, thus bap- 
tized in blood, 
Grew ever high and higher, beyond 

my seeing, 
And shot out sidelong boughs across 

the deep 
That dropt themselves, and rooted in 

far isles 
Beyond my seeing ; and the great 

Angel rose 
And past again along the highest, cry- 
ing, 90 



' The doom of England ! ' — Tostig, 
raise my head ! 

[Falls back senseless. 
Harold {raising Mm): Let Harold 

serve for Tostig ! 
Queen. Harold served 

Tostig so ill, he cannot serve for Tos- 
tig ! 
Ay, raise his head, for thou hast laid 

it low ! 
The sickness of our saintly King, for 

whom 
My prayers go up as fast as my tears 

fall, 
I well believe, hath mainly drawn it- 
self 
From lack of Tostig — thou hast ban- 
ish' d him. 
Harold. Nay — but the Council, and 

the King himself. 
Queen. Thou hatest him, hatesthim! 
Harold {coldly). Ay — Stigand, un- 
riddle 100 
This vision, canst thou ? 
Stigand. Dotage ! 
Edward {starting up). It is finish'd. 
I have built the Lord a house — the 

Lord hath dwelt 
In darkness. I have built the Lord a 

house — 
Palms, flowers, pomegranates, golden 

cherubim 
With twenty-cubit wings from wall to 

wall — 
I have built the Lord a house — sing, 

Asaph! clash 
The cymbal, Heman ! blow the trum- 
pet, priest! 
Fall, cloud, and fill the house — lo! 

my two pillars, 
Jachin and Boaz ! 

[Seeing Harold and Gurth. 
Harold, Gurth, — where am I? 
Where is the charter of our West- 
minster ? no 
Stigand. It lies beside thee, king, 

upon thy bed. 
Edward. Sign, sign at once — take, 
sign it, Stigand, Aldred ! 
Sign it, my good son Harold, Gurth, 

and Leofwin ! 
Sign it, my Queen ! 
All. We have sign'd it. 

Edicard. It is finish'd ! 

The kingliest abbey in all Christian 
lands, 



794 



HAROLD 



ACT III 



The lordliest, loftiest minster ever 

built 
To Holy Peter in our English isle ! 
Let me be buried there, and all our 

kings, 
And all our just and wise and holy 

men 
That shall be born hereafter. It is 

finish'd ! 120 

Hast thou had absolution for thine 

oath? [To Harold. 

Harold. Stigand hath given me ab- 
solution for it. 
Edward. Stigand is not canonical 

enough 
To save thee from the wrath of Nor- 
man Saints. 
Stigand. Norman enough ! Be there 

no Saints of England 
To help us from their brethren yonder ? 
Edward. Prelate, 

The Saints are one, but those of Nor- 

manland 
Are mightier than our own. — Ask it 

of Aldred. {To Harold. 

Aldred. It shall be granted him, my 

king ; for he 
"Who vows a vow to strangle his own 

mother 130 

Is guiltier keeping this than breaking 

it. 
Edward. O friends, I shall not over- 
live the day ! 
Stigand. Why, then the throne is 

empty. Who inherits ? 
For tho' we be not bound by the king's 

voice 
In making of a king, yet the king's 

voice 
Is much toward his making. Who 

inherits ? 
Edgar the Atheling ? 

Edward. No, no, but Harold. 

I love him ; he hath served me ; none 

but he 
Can rule all England. Yet the curse 

is on him 
For swearing falsely by those blessed 

bones ; 140 

He did not mean to keep his vow. 

I if wold. Not mean 

To make our England Norman. 

Edward. There spake Godwin, 

Who hated all the Normans ; but their 

Saints 
Have heard thee, Harold. 



Edith. O, my lord, my King ! 

He knew not whom he sware by. 
Edward. Yea, I know 

He knew not, but those heavenly ears 
have heard, 

Their curse is on him ; wilt thou bring 
another, 

Edith, upon his head ? 

Edith. No, no, not I ! 

Edward. Why, then thou must not 

wed him. 
Harold. Wherefore, wherefore ? 
Edward. O son, when thOu didst 
tell me of thine oath, 150 

I sorrow'd for my random promise 
given 

To yon fox-lion. I did not dream then 

I should be king. — My son, the Saints 
are virgins ; 

They love the white rose of virginity, 

The cold, white lily blowing in her 
cell. 

I have been myself a virgin ; and I 
sware 

To consecrate my virgin here to Hea- 
ven — 

The silent, cloister'd, solitary life, 

A life of lifelong prayer against the 
curse 

That lies on thee and England. 
Harold. No, no, no ! 

Edward. Treble denial of the tongue 
of flesh, 161 

Like Peter's when he fell, and thou 
wilt have 

To wail for it like Peter. O my son ! 

Are all oaths to be broken then, all 
promises 

Made in our agony for help from Hea- 
ven ? 

Son, there is one who loves thee ; and 
a wife, 

What matters who, so she be service- 
able 

In all obedience, as mine own hath 
been ? 

God bless thee, wedded daughter ! 

[Laying his hand on the Queen's 
head. 

Queen. Bless thou too 

That brother whom I love beyond the 

rest, 170 

My banish' d Tostig. 

Edward. All the sweet Saints bless 

him ! 



SCENE I 



HAROLD 



795 



Spare and forbear him, Harold, if he 

comes ! 
And let him pass unscathed ; he loves 

me, Harold ! 
Be kindly to the Normans left among 

us, 
Who follow'd me for love ! and dear 

son, swear 
When thou art king, to see my solemn 

vow 
Accomplish'd. 
Harold. Nay, dear lord, for I have 

sworn 
Not to swear falsely twice. 

Edward. Thou wilt not swear ? 

Harold. I cannot. 

Edward. Then on thee remains the 

curse, 
Harold, if thou embrace her ; and on 

thee, 180 

Edith, if thou abide it, — 

[The King swoons ; Edith falls 
and kneels by the couch. 

Stigand. He hath swoon'd. 

Death ? — no, as yet a breath. 

Harold. Look up ! look up ! 

Edith ! 

Aldred. Confuse her not ; she hath 
begun 
Her lifelong prayer for thee. 

Aldwyth. O noble Harold, 

I would thou couldst have sworn. 
Harold. For thine own pleasure ? 
Aldwyth. No, but to please our 
dying King, and those 
Who make thy good their own — all 
England, earl. 
Aldred. I would thou couldst have 
sworn. Our holy King 
Hath given his virgin lamb to Holy 
Church 189 

To save thee from the curse. 

Harold. Alas ! poor man, 

His promise brought it on me. 

Aldred. O good son ! 

That knowledge made him all the 

carefuller 
To find a means whereby the curse 

might glance 
From thee and England. 

Harold. Father, we so loved — 

Aldred. The more the love, the 
mightier is the prayer ; 
The more the love, the more accept- 
able 



The sacrifice of both your loves to 

Heaven. 
No sacrifice to Heaven, no help from 

Heaven ; 
That runs thro' all the faiths of all the 

world. 
And sacrifice there must be, for the 
King 200 

Is holy, and hath talk'd with God, 

and seen 
A shadowing horror ; there are signs 
in heaven — 
Harold. Your comet came and 

went. 
Aldred. And signs on earth ! 

Knowest thou Senlac hill ? 

Harold. I know all Sussex ; 

A good entrenchment for a perilous 

hour ! 

Aldred. Pray God that come not 

suddenly ! There is one 

Who passing by that hill three nights 

ago — 
He shook so that he scarce could out 

with it — 
Heard, heard — 
Harold. The wind in his hair ? 
Aldred. A ghostly horn 

Blowing continually, and faint battle- 
hymns, 210 
And cries, and clashes, and the groans 

of men ; 
And dreadful shadows strove upon 

the hill, 
And dreadful lights crept up from out 

the marsh — 
Corpse-candles gliding over nameless 
graves — 
Harold. At Senlac ? 
Aldred. Senlac. 

Edward (leaking). Senlac ! Sangue- 

The Lake of Blood ! 

Stigand. This lightning before 

death 
Plays on the word, — and Normanizes 
too ! 
Harold. Hush, father, hush ! 
Edward. Thou uncanonical fool, 
Wilt thou play with the thunder? 

North and South 

Thunder together, showers of blood 

are blown 220 

Before a never-ending blast, and hiss 

Against the blaze they cannot quench 

— a lake, 



796 



HAROLD 



ACT III 



A sea of blood — we are drown' d in 

blood — for God 
Has fill'd the quiver, and Death has 

drawn the bow — 
Sanguelac ! Sanguelac ! the arrow ! 

the arrow ! [Dies. 

Stigancl. It is the arrow of death in 

his own heart — 
And our great Council wait to crown 

thee King. 



Scene II 

In the Garden. The King's House 
near London 

Edith. Crown'd, crown'd and lost, 
crown'd King — and lost to 
me ! 

{Singing.) 

Two young lovers in winter weather, 

None to guide them, 
Walk'd at night on the misty heather; 
Night, as black as a raven's feather; 
Both were lost and found together, 

None beside them. 

That is the burthen of it — lost and 

found 
Together in the cruel river Swale 
A hundred years ago ; and there 's an- 
other, IO 

Lost, lost, the light of day, 

To which the lover answers lovingly : 

' I am beside thee.' 
Lost, lost, we have lost the way. 

'Love, I will guide thee.' 
Whither, O whither ? into the river, 
Where we two may be lost together, 
And lost for ever ? ' 0, never! 0, never! 
Tho' we be lost and be found together.' 

Some think they loved within the 

pale forbidden 20 

By Holy Church ; but who shall say ? 

the truth 
Was lost in that fierce North, where 

they were lost, 
Where all good things are lost, where 

Tostig lost 
The good hearts of his people. It is 

Harold ! 



Enter Harold, 
Harold the King ! 

Harold. Call me not King, but 

Harold. 
Edith. Nay, thou art King ! 
Harold. Thine, thine, or King or 

churl ! 
My girl, thou hast been weeping; 

turn not thou 
Thy face away, but rather let me be 
King of the moment to thee, and com- 
mand 
That kiss my due when subject, which 

will make 30 

My kingship kinglier to me than to 

reign 
King of the world without it. 

Edith. Ask me not, 

Lest I should yield it, and the second 

curse 
Descend upon thine head, and thou 

be only 
King of the moment over England. 

Harold. Edith, 

Tho' somewhat less a king to my true 

self 
Than ere they crown'd me one, for I 

have lost 
Somewhat of upright stature thro' 

mine oath, 
Yet thee I would not lose, and sell 

not thou 
Our living passion for a dead man's 

dream ; 40 

Stigand believed he knew not what 

he spake. 
O God! I cannot help it, but at 

times 
They seem to me too narrow, all the 

faiths 
Of this grown world of ours, whose 

baby eye 
Saw them sufficient. Fool and wise, 

I fear 
This curse, and scorn it. But a little 

light ! — 
And on it falls the shadow of the 

priest ; 
Heaven yield us more ! for better, 

Woden, all 
Our cancell' d warrior-gods, our grim 

Walhalla, 
Eternal war, than that the Saints at 

peace, 50 

The Holiest of our Holiest One, should 

be 



SCENE II 



HAROLD 



797 



This William's fellow-tricksters ; — 

better die 
Than credit this, for death is death, 

or else 
Lifts us beyond the lie. Kiss me — 

thou art not 
A holy sister yet, my girl, to fear 
There might be more than brother in 

my kiss, 
And more than sister in thine own. 
Edith. I dare not. 

Harold. Scared by the church — 
'Love for a whole life long.' 
When was that sung ? 

Edith. Here to the nightingales. 

Harold. Their anthems of no church, 

how sweet they are ! 60 

Nor kingly priest, nor priestly king 

to cross 
Their billings ere they nest. 

Edith. They are but of spring, 

They fly the winter change — not so 

with us — 
No wings to come and go. 

Harold. But wing'd souls flying 
Beyond all change and in the eternal 

distance 
To settle on the Truth. 

Edith. They are not so true, 

They change their mates. 

Harold. Do they ? I did not know 

* it. 
Edith. They say thou art to wed 

the Lady Aldwyth. 
Harold. They say, they say ! 
Edith. If this be politic, 

And well for thee and England — and 
for her — 7° 

Care not for me who love thee. 

Gurth {calling). Harold, Harold ! 
Harold. The voice of Gurth ! {En- 
ter Gurth.) Good even, my 
good brother ! 
Gurth. Good even, gentle Edith. 
Edith. Good even, Gurth. 

Gurth. Ill news hath come ! Our 
hapless brother, Tostig — 
He, and the giant King of Norway, 

Harold 
Hardrada — Scotland, Ireland, Ice- 
land, Orkney, 
Are landed north of Humber, and in a 

field 
So packt with carnage that the dykes 
and brooks 



79 



Were bridged and damm'd with dead, 

have overthrown 
Morcar and Edwin. 

Harold. Well then, we must fight. 
How blows the wind ? 

Gurth Against Saint Valery 

And William. 

Harold. Well then, we will to the 

North. 
Gurth. Ay, but worse news: this 

William sent to Rome, 
Swearing thou swarest falsely by his 

Saints. 
The Pope and that Archdeacon Hilde- 

brand, 
His master, heard him, and have sent 

him back 
A holy gonfanon, and a blessed hair 
Of Peter, and all France, all Burgundy, 
Poitou, all Christendom is raised 

against thee. 
He hath cursed thee, and all those 

who fight for thee, 90 

And given thy realm of England to 

the bastard. 
Harold. Ha ! ha ! 
Edith. O, laugh not ! — Strange and 

ghastly in the gloom 
And shadowing of this double thunder- 
cloud 
That lours on England — laughter ! 

Harold. No, not strange ! 

This was old human laughter in old 

Rome 
Before a Pope was born, when that 

which reign'd 
Call'd itself God. — A kindly rendering 
Of ' Render unto Caesar. ' — The Good 

Shepherd ! 
Take this, and render that. 

Gurth. They have taken York. 

Harold. The Lord was God and 

came as man — the Pope 101 
Is man and comes as God. — York 

taken ? 
Gurth. Yea, 

Tostig hath taken York ! 

Harold. To York then. Edith, 

Hadst thou been braver, I had better 

braved 
All — but I love thee and thou me — 

and that 
Remains beyond all chances and all 

churches, 
And that thou knowest. 



79 8 



HAROLD 



ACT IV 



Edith. Ay, but take back thy ring. 
It burns my hand — a curse to thee 

and me. 
I dare not wear it. 

[Proffers Harold the ring, which 
he takes. 

Harold. But I dare. God with 

thee! 

[Exeunt Harold and Gurth. 

Edith. The King hath cursed him, 

if he marry me; no 

The Pope hath cursed him, marry me 

or no ! 
God help me ! I know nothing — can 

but pray 
For Harold — pray, pray, pray — no 

help but prayer, 
A breath that fleets beyond this iron 

world, 
And touches Him that made it. 



ACT IV 

Scene I. — In Northumbria 

Archbishop Aldred, Morcar, Ed- 
win, and Forces. Enter Harold, 
the standard of the golden Dragon of 
Wessex preceding him. 

Harold. What ! are thy people sul- 
len from defeat ? 
Our Wessex dragon flies beyond the 

Humber, 
No voice to greet it. 

Edwin. Let not our great King 

Believe us sullen — only shamed to 

the quick 
Before the King — as having been so 

bruised 
By Harold, King of Norway ; but our 

help 
Is Harold, King of England. Pardon 

us, thou ! 
Our silence is our reverence for the 
King ! 
Harold. Earl of the Mercians ! if 
the truth be gall, 
Cram me not thou with honey, when 
our good hive 10 

Needs every sting to save it. 

Voices. Aldwyth ! Aldwyth ! 

Harold. Why cry thy people on thy 
sister's name ? 



Morcar. She hath won upon our 
people thro' her beauty 
And pleasantness among them. 

Voices. Aldwyth, Aldwyth ! 

Harold. They shout as they would 

have her for a queen. 
Morcar. She hath follow'd with our 

host, and suffer'd all. 
Harold. What would ye, men ? 
Voice. Our old Northumbrian crown, 
And kings of our own choosing. 

Harold. Your old crown 

Were little help without our Saxon 

carles 
Against Hardrada. 

Voice. Little ! we are Danes, 

Who conquer'd what we walk on, our 

own field. 21 

Harold. They have been plotting 

here ! [ Aside. 

Voice. He calls us little ! 

Harold. The kingdoms of this world 

began with little, 

A hill, a fort, a city— that reach'd a 

hand 
Down to the field beneath it, ' Be thou 

mine/ 
Then to the next, ' Thou also ! ' If the 

field 
Cried out, ( I am mine own,' another 

hill, 
Or fort, or city, took it, and the first 
Fell, and the next became an empire. 
Voice. Yet 

Thou art but a West Saxon ; toe are 
Danes ! 30 

Harold. My mother is a Dane, and 
I am English ; 
There is a pleasant fable in old books, 
Ye take a stick, and break it ; bind a 

score 
All in one faggot, snap it over knee, 
Ye cannot. 

Voice. Hear King Harold ! he says 

true ! 
Harold. Would ye be Norsemen ? 
Voices. No ! 

Harold. Or Norman ? 

Voices. No ! 

Harold. Snap not the faggot-band 

then. 
Voice. That is true ! 

Voice. Ay, but thou art not kingly, 
only grandson 
To Wulfnoth, a poor cowherd. 
Harold. This old Wulfnoth 



SCENE I 



HAROLD 



799 



Would take me on his knees and tell 
me tales 40 

Of Alfred and of Athelstan the Great 

Who drove you Danes; and yet he 
held that Dane, 

Jute, Angle, Saxon, were or should be 
all 

One England ; for this cowherd, like 
my father, 

Who shook the Norman scoundrels off 
the throne, 

Had in him kingly thoughts — a king 
of men, 

Not made but born, like the great King 
of all, 

A light among the oxen. 

Voice. That is true ! 

Voice. Ay, and I love him now, for 

mine own father 49 

Was great, and cobbled. 

Voice. Thou art Tostig' s brother. 

Who wastes the land. 
Harold. This brother comes to save 

Your land from waste ; I saved it once 
before, 

For when your people banish'd Tostig 
hence, 

And Edward would have sent a host 
against you, 

Then I, who loved my brother, bade 
the King, 

Who doted on him, sanction your de- 
cree 

Of Tostig' s banishment, and choice of 
Morcar, 

To help the realm from scattering. 
Voice. King ! thy brother, 

If one may dare to speak the truth, 
was wrong'd. 

Wild was he, born so ; but the plots 
against him 60 

Had madden'd tamer men. 

Morcar. Thou art one of those 

Who brake into Lord Tostig' s treasure- 
house 

And slew two hundred of his follow- 
ing, 

And now, when Tostig hath come back 
with power, 

Are frighted back to Tostig. 

Old Thane. Ugh ! Plots and feuds ! 

This is my ninetieth birthday. Can ye 
not 

Be brethren? Godwin still at feud with 
Alfgar, 



And Alfgar hates King Harold. Plots 

and feuds ! 
This is my ninetieth birthday ! 

Harold. Old man, Harold 

Hates nothing ; not Ms fault, if our 
two houses 7 o 

Be less than brothers. 

Voices. Aldwyth, Harold, Aid wyth! 
Harold. Again ! Morcar ! Edwin ! 

What do they mean ? 
Edwin. So the good King would 
deign to lend an ear 
Not overscornful, we might chance 

— perchance — 
To guess their meaning. 

Morcar. Thine own meaning, 

Harold, 
To make all England one, to close all 

feuds, 
Mixing our bloods, that thence a king 

may rise 
Half-Godwin and half -Alfgar, one to 

rule 
All England beyond question, beyond 
quarrel. 
Harold. Who sow'd this fancy here 
among the people ? 80 

Morcar. Who knows what sows it- 
self among the people ? 
A goodly flower at times. 

Harold. The Queen of Wales ? 

Why, Morcar, it is all but duty in 

her 
To hate me ; I have heard she hates 
me. 
Morcar. No ! 
For I can swear to that, but cannot 

swear 
That these will follow thee against the 

Norsemen, 
If thou deny them this. 

Harold. Morcar and Edwin, 

When will ye cease to plot against my 
house ? 
Edwin. The King can scarcely dream 
that we, who know 
His prowess in the mountains of the 
West, 00 

Should care to plot against him in the 
North. 
Morcar. Who dares arraign us, K Lng, 

of such a plot ? 
Harold. Ye heard one witness even 



now. 
Morcar. 



The craven] 



HAROLD 



ACT IV 



There is a faction risen again for Tos- 
tig, 
Since Tostig came with Norway — 
fright, not love. 
Harold. Morcar and Edwin, will ye, 
if I yield, 
Follow against the Norseman ? 

Morcar. Surely, surely! 

Harold. Morcar and Edwin, will ye 
upon oath 9 8 

Help us against the Norman ? 

Morcar. With good will ; 

Yea, take the sacrament upon it, King. 
Harold. Where is thy sister ? 
Morcar. Somewhere hard at hand. 
Call and she comes. 

[One goes out, then enter Aldwyth. 
Harold. I doubt not but thou 

knowest 
Why thou art summon' d. 

Aldwyth. Why ? — I stay with these, 
Lest thy fierce Tostig spy me out 

alone, 
And flay me all alive. 

Harold. Canst thou love one 

Who did discrown thine husband, un- 

queen thee ? 
Didst thou not love thine husband ? 

Aldwyth. O ! my lord, 

The nimble, wild, red, wiry, savage 

king — 

That was, my lord, a match of policy. 

Harold. Was it ? 

I knew him brave ; he loved his land ; 

he fain no 

Had made her great ; his finger on her 

harp — 
I heard him more than once — had in 

it Wales, 
Her floods, her woods, her hills. Had 

I been his, 
I had been all Welsh. 

Aldwyth. O, ay ! — all Welsh — and 
yet 
I saw thee drive him up his hills — and 

women 
Cling to the conquer'd, if they love, 

the more ; 
If not, they cannot hate the conqueror. 
We never — O good Morcar, speak for 

us, 
His conqueror conquer'd Aldwyth. 
Harold. Goodly news! 

Morcar. Doubt it not thou ! Since 
Griff yth's head was sent 120 
To Edward, she hath said it. 



Harold. I had rather 

She would have loved her husband. 

Aldwyth, Aldwyth, 
Canst thou love me, thou knowing 

where I love ? 
Aldwyth. I can, my lord, for mine 

own sake, for thine, 
For England, for thy poor white dove, 

who flutters 
Between thee and the porch, but then 

would find 
Her nest within the cloister and be 

still. 
Harold. Canst thou love one who 

cannot love again ? 
Aldwyth. Full hope have I that love 

will answer love. 
Harold. Then in the name of the 

great God, so be it ! 130 

Come, Aldred, join our hands before 

the hosts, 
That all may see. 

[Aldred joins the hands of Harold 

and Aldwyth, and blesses them. 
Voices. Harold, Harold and Ald- 
wyth! 
Harold. Set forth our golden 

Dragon, let him flap 
The wings that beat down Wales ! 
Advance our Standard of the Warrior, 
Dark among gems and gold ; and thou, 

brave banner, 
Blaze like a night of fatal stars on 

those 
Who read their doom and die. 
Where lie the Norsemen ? on the Der- 

went ? ay, 
At Stamford-Bridge. 140 

Morcar, collect thy men; Edwin, my 

friend — 
Thou lingerest. — Gurth, — 
Last night King Edward came to me 

in dreams — 
The rosy face and long down-silver- 
ing beard — 
He told me I should conquer. — 
I am no woman to put faith in 

dreams. 

{To 7iis army.) 

Last night King Edward came to me in 

dreams, 
And told me we should conquer. 

Voices. Forward ! Forward ! 

Harold and Holy Cross ! 

Aldwyth. The day is won ! 



SCENE II 



HAROLD 



801 



Scene II 

A Plain. Before the Battle of 
Stamford-Bridge. 

Harold and his Guard. 

Harold. Who is it comes this way ? 
Tostig ? {Enter Tostig with a 
small force.) O brother, 
What art thou doing here ? 

Tostig. I am foraging 

For Norway's army. 

Harold. I could take and slay thee. 
Thou art in arms against us. 

Tostig. Take and slay me, 

For Edward loved me. 
Harold. Edward bade me spare 

thee. 
Tostig. I hate King Edward, for 
he join'd with thee 
To drive me outlaw' d. Take and 

slay me, I say, 
Or I shall count thee fool. 

Harold. Take thee, or free thee, 

Free thee or slay thee, Norway will 

have war ; 
No man would strike with Tostig, 
save for Norway. 10 

Thou art nothing in thine England, 

save for Norway, 
Who loves not thee, but war. What 

dost thou here, 
Trampling thy mother's bosom into 
blood ? 
Tostig. She hath wean'd me from 
it with such bitterness. 
I come for mine own earldom, my 

Northumbria ; 
Thou hast given it to the enemy of 
our house. 
Harold. Northumbria threw thee 
off, she will not have thee. 
Thou hast misused her ; and, O crown- 
ing crime ! 
Hast murder' d thine own guest, the 

son of Orm, 
Gamel, at thine own hearth. 

Tostig. The slow, fat fool ! 

He drawl'd and prated so, I smote him 

suddenly ; 21 

I knew not what I did. He held with 

Morcar. — 
I hate myself for all things that I do. 
Harold. And Morcar holds with us. 
Come back with him. 



Know what thou dost ; and we may 

find for thee, 
So thou be chasten'd by thy banish- 
ment, 
Some easier earldom. 

Tostig. What for Norway then ? 

He looks for land among us, he and 
his. 
Harold. Seven feet of English land, 
or something more, 
Seeing he is a giant. 

Tostig. That is noble ! 30 

That sounds of Godwin. 

Harold. Come thou back, and be 
Once more a son of Godwin. 

Tostig {turns away). O brother, 

brother, 

Harold — 

Harold {laying his hand on Tostig' s 
shoulder). Nay then, come thou 
back to us ! 
Tostig {after a pause turning to him). 
Never shall any man say that I, 
that Tostig 

Conjured the mightier Harold from 
his North 

To do the battle for me here in Eng- 
land, 

Then left him for the meaner ! thee ! — 

Thou hast no passion for the house of 
Godwin — 

Thou hast but cared to make thyself 
a king — 

Thou hast sold me for a cry. — 40 

Thou gavest thy voice against me in 
the Council — 

1 hate thee, and despise thee, and defy 

thee. 
Farewell for ever. [Exit. 

Harold. On to Stamford-Bridge J 

Scene III 

After the Battle of Stamford- 
Bridge. Banquet 

Harold and Aldwyth. Gurth, 
Leofwin, Morcar, Edwin, and 
other Earls and Thanes. 

Voices. Hail ! Harold I Aldwyth I 

hail, bridegroom and bride ! 
Aldwyth {talking with Harold). An- 
swer them thou ! 
Is this our marriage -banquet ? Would 
the wines 



802 



HAROLD 



ACT IV 



Of wedding had been dash'd into the 

cups 
Of victory, and our marriage and thy 

glory 
Been "drunk together ! these poor 

hands but sew, 
Spin, broider — would that they were 

man's to have held 
The battle-axe by thee ! 

Harold. There teas a moment 

When, being forced aloof from all my 

guard, 
And striking at Hardrada and his 
madmen, 10 

I had wish'd for anv weapon. 
Aldicyth. Why art thou sad ? 

Harold. I have lost the boy who 
play'd at ball with me. 
"With whom I fought another fight 

than this 
Of Stamford-Bridge. 

Aldicyth. Ay ! ay ! thy victories 
Over our own poor Wales, when at 

thy side 
He conquer'd with thee. 

Harold. No — the childish fist 

That cannot strike again. 

Aldicyth, Thou art too kindly. 

Why didst thou let so many Norse- 
men hence ? 
Thy fierce f orekings had clench'd their 

pirate hides 
To the bleak church doors, like kites 
upon a barn. 20 

Harold. Is there so great a need to 

tell thee why ? 
Aldicyth. Yea, am I not thy wife ? 
Voices. Hail, Harold, Aldwyth ! 

Bridegroom and bride ! 
Aldicyth. Answer them ! 

[To Harold. 

Harold (to all). Earls and thanes ! 

Full thanks for your fair greeting of 

my bride ! 
Earls, thanes, and all our countrymen ! 

the day, 
Our day beside the Derwent, will not 

shine 
Less than a star among the goidenest 

hours 
Of Alfred, or of Edward his great son, 
Or Athelstan. or English Ironside 
Who fought with Knut, or Knut who 
coming Dane 30 

Died English. Every man about his 
King 



Fought like a king ; the King like his 

own man, 
No better ; one for all, and all for one, 
One soul ! and therefore have we shat- 
tered back 
The hugest wave from Norseland ever 

yet 
Surged on us, and our battle-axes 

broken 
The Raven's wing, and dumb'd his 

carrion croak 
From the gray sea for ever. Many 

are gone — 
Drink to the dead who died for us, 

the living 
Who fought and would have died, but 

happier lived, 40 

If happier be to live ; they both have life 
In the large mouth of England, till 

her voice 
Die with the world. Hail — hail ! 
Morcar. May all invaders perish 

like Hardrada ! 
All traitors fail like Tostig ! 

[All drink but Harold. 
Aldicyth. Thy cup 's full ! 

Harold. I saw the hand of Tostig 

cover it. 
Our dear, dead traitor-brother, Tostig, 

him 
Reverently we buried. Friends, had 

I been here, 
Without too large self -lauding I must 

hold 
The sequel had been other than his 

league 50 

With Norway, and this battle. Peace 

be with him ! 
He was not of the worst. If there be 

those 
At banquet in this hall, and hearing 

me — 
For there be those, I fear, who prick'd 

the lion 
To make him spring, that sight of 

Danish blood 
Might serve an end not English — 

peace with them 
Likewise, if they can be at peace with 

what 
God gave us to divide us from the wolf ! 
Aldicyth {aside to Harold). Make not 

our Morcar sullen ; it is not wise. 
Harold. Hail to the living who 

fought, the dead who fell ! 60 
Voices. Hail, hail ! 



SCENE III 



HAROLD 



803 




Stamfoed Beidge 



First Thane. How ran that answer 
which King Harold gave 
To his dead namesake, when he ask'd 
for England ? 
Lecfwin. ' Seven feet of English 
earth, or something more, 
Seeing he is a giant ! ' 

First Thane. Then for the bastard 
Six feet and nothing more ! 

Lecfwin. Ay, but belike 

Thou hast not learnt his measure. 

First Thane. By Saint Edmund 

I over-measure him. Sound sleep to 

the man 

Here by dead Norway without dream 

or dawn ! 

and Thane. What, is he bragging 

still that he will come, 70 

To thrust our Harold's throne from 

under him ? 
My nurse would tell me of a molehill 

crying 
To a mountain, ' Stand aside and room 
for me ! ' 



First Thane. Let him come ! let him 

come ! Here 's to him, sink 01 

swim ! [Dri 

Second Thane. God sink him ! 
First Thane. Cannot hands which 

had the strength 
To shove that stranded iceberg off our 

shores, 
And send the shatter'd North again to 

sea, 
Scuttle his cockle-shell ? What's Bru- 

nanburg 
To Stamford-Bridge? a war-crash, and 

so hard, 
So loud, that, by Saint Dunstan, old 

Saint Trior — 80 

By God. we thought him dead — but 

our old Thor 
Heard his own thunder again, and 

woke and came 
Among us again, and mark'd the sons 

of those 
Who made this Britain England, break 

the North — 



804 



HAROLD 



ACT V 



Mark'd how the war-axe swang, 

Heard how the war-horn sang, 

Mark'd how the spear-head sprang, 

Heard how the shield-wall rang, 

Iron on iron clang, 

Anvil on hammer bang — go 

Second Thane. Hammer on anvil, 
hammer on anvil. Old dog, 
Thou art drunk, old dog ! 

First Thane. Too drunk to fight 
with thee ! 

Second Thane. Fight thou with thine 
own double, not with me, 
Keep that for Norman William ! 

First Thane. Down with William ! 

Third Thane. The washerwoman's 
brat ! 

Fourth Thane. The tanner's bas- 
tard ! 

Fifth Thane. The Falaise byblow ! 

Enter a Thane, from Pevensey, spat- 
tered with mud. 

Harold. Ay, but what late guest, 
As haggard as a fast of forty days, 
And caked and plaster'd with a hun- 
dred mires, 
Hath stumbled on our cups ? 

Thane from Pevensey. My lord the 
King ! 
William the Norman, for the wind had 
changed — ioo 

Harold. I felt it in the middle of 
that fierce fight 
At Stamford-Bridge. William hath 
landed, ha? 
Thane from Pevensey. Landed at 
Pevensey — I am from Peven- 
sey — 
Hath wasted all the land at Pevensey — 
Hath harried mine own cattle — God 

confound him ! 
I have ridden night and day from 

Pevensey — 
A thousand ships — a hundred thou- 
sand men — 
Thousands of horses, like as many lions 
Neighing and roaring as they leapt to 
land — 
Harold. How oft in coming hast 
thou broken bread ? no 

Thane from Pevensey. Some thrice, 

or so. 
Harold. Bring not thy hollo wness 
On our full feast. Famine is fear, 
were it but 



Of being starved. Sit down, sit down, 
and eat, 

And, when again red-blooded, speak 
again. 

(Aside.) The men that guarded Eng- 
land to the South 

Were scatter' d to the harvest. — No 
power mine 

To hold their force together. — Many 
are fallen 

At Stamford - Bridge — the people 
stupid- sure 

Sleep like their swine — in South and 
North at once 

I could not be. 
(Aloud.) Gurth, Leofwin, Morcar, 
Edwin ! 120 

(Pointing to the revellers.) The curse 
of England ! these are drown' d 
in wassail, 

And cannot see the world but thro' 
their wines ! 

Leave them ! and thee too, Aldwyth, 
must I leave — 

Harsh is the news ! hard is our honey- 
moon ! 

Thy pardon (Turning round to Ms at- 
tendants.) Break the banquet 
up — Ye four ! 

And thou, my carrier-pigeon of black 
news, 

Cram thy crop full, but come when 
thou art call'd. {Exit Harold. 



ACT V 

Scene I. A Tent on a Mound, 
from which can be seen the 
Field of Senlac 

Harold, sitting ; by him standing 
Hugh Margot the Monk, Gurth, 
Leofwin. 

Harold. Refer my cause, my crown 

to Rome ! The wolf 
Mudded the brook and predetermined 

all. 
Monk, 
Thou hast said thy say, and had my 

constant 'No' 
For all but instant battle. I hear no 

more. 
Margot. Hear me again — for the 

last time. Arise, 



SCENE I 



HAROLD 



805 



Scatter thy people home, descend the 

hill, 
Lay hands of full allegiance in thy 

Lord's 
And crave his mercy, for the Holy 

Father 
Hath given this realm of England to 

the Norman. 10 

Harold. Then for the last time, 

monk, I ask again 
When had the Lateran and the Holy 

Father 
To do with England's choice of her 

own king ? 
Margot. Earl, the first Christian 

Caesar drew to the East 
To leave the Pope dominion in the 

West. 
He gave him all the kingdoms of the 

West. 
Harold. So ! — did he ? — Earl — I 

have a mind to play 
The William with thine eyesight and 

thy tongue. 
Earl — ay — thou art but a messenger 

of William. 
I am weary — go ; make me not wroth 

with thee ! 20 

Margot Mock-king, I am the mes- 
senger of God, 
His Norman Daniel! Mene, Mene, 

Tekel ! 
Is thy wrath hell, that I should spare 

to cry, 
Yon Heaven is wroth with thee f Hear 

me again ! 
Our Saints have moved the Church 

that moves the world, 
And all the Heavens and very God ; 

they heard — 
They know King Edward's promise 

and thine — thine. 
Harold. Should they not know free 

England crowns herself ? 
Not know that he nor I had power to 

promise ? 
Not know that Edward cancell'd his 

own promise ? 30 

And for my part therein — Back to 

that juggler, [Rising. 

Tell him the Saints are nobler than he 

dreams, 
Tell him that God is nobler than the 

Saints, 
And tell him we stand arm'd on Senlac 

Hill, 



And bide the doom of God. 

Margot. Hear it thro' me. 

The realm for which thou art forsworn 

is cursed, 
The babe enwomb'd and at the breast 

is cursed, 
The corpse thou whelmest with thine 

earth is cursed, 
The soul who fighteth on thy side is 

cursed, 
The seed thou sowest in thy field is 

cursed, 4 o 

The steer wherewith thou plowest thy 

field is cursed, 
The fowl that fleeth o'er thy field is 

cursed, 
And thou, usurper, liar — 

Harold. Out, beast monk ! 

[Lifting his hand to strike him. 
Gurth stops the blow. 



I ever hated monks. 

Margot. I am but a voice 

Among you ; murder, martyr me if ye 

will — 
Harold. Thanks, Gurth ! The sim- 
ple, silent, selfless man 
Is worth a world of tongue sters. {To 

Margot. ) Get thee gone ! 
He means the thing he says. See him 

out safe ! 
Leoficin. He hath blown himself 

as red as fire with curses. 
An honest fool ! Follow me, honest 

fool, 50 

But if thou blurt thy curse among 

our folk, 
I know not — I may give that egg- 
bald head 
The tap that silences. 
Harold. See him out safe. 

[Exeunt Leof win and Margot. 
Gurth. Thou hast lost thine even 

temper, brother Harold ! 
Harold, Gurth, when I past by 

Waltham, my foundation 
For men who serve the neighbor, not 

themselves, 
I cast me down prone, praying; and, 

when I rose, 
They told me that the Holy Rood had 

lean'd 
And bow'd above me; whether that 

which held it 
Had weaken'd, and the Rood itself 

were bound 60 



8o6 



HAROLD 



ACT V 



To that necessity which binds us 

down ; 
Whether it bow'd at all but in their 

fancy ; 
Or if it bow'd, whether it symboll'd 

ruin 
Or glory, who shall tell ? but they 

were sad, 
And somewhat sadden' d me. 

Gurth. Yet if a fear, 

Or shadow of a fear, lest the strange 

Saints 
By whom thou swarest should have 

power to balk 
Thy puissance in this fight with him 

who made 
And heard thee swear — brother — I 

have not sworn — 
If the King fall, may not the kingdom 

fall ? 70 

But if I fall, I fall, and thou art King ; 
And if I win, I win, and thou art 

King ; 
Draw thou to London, there make 

strength to breast 
Whatever chance, but leave this day 

to me. 
Leoficin (entering). And waste the 

land about thee as thou goest, 
And be thy hand as winter on the field, 
To leave the foe no forage. 

Harold. Noble Gurth ! 

Best son of Godwin ! If I fall, I fall — 
The doom of God ! How should the 

people fight 
When the King flies ? And, Leofwin, 

art thou mad ? 80 

How should the King of England 

waste the fields 
Of England, his own people? — No 

glance yet 
Of the Northumbrian helmet on the 

heath ? 
Leoftoin. No, but a shoal of wives 

upon the heath, 
And some one saw thy willy-nilly nun 
Vying a tress against our golden fern. 
Harold. Vying a tear with our cold 

dews, a sigh 
With these low-moaning heavens. 

Let her be fetch'd. 
We have parted from our wife with- 
out reproach, 
Tho' we have pierced thro' all her 

practices ; 9 o 

And that is well. 



Leofwin. I saw her even now ; 

She hath not left us. 

Harold. Nought of Morcar then ? 

Gurth. Nor seen, nor heard ; thine, 

William's, or his own 

As wind blows, or tide flows. Belike 

he watches 
If this war- storm in one of its rough 

rolls 
Wash up that old crown of Northum- 
berland. 
Harold. I married her for Morcar 
— a sin against 
The truth of love. Evil for good, it 

seems, 
Is oft as childless of the good as 

evil 
For evil. 
Leofwin. Good for good hath borne 
* at times 100 

A bastard false as William. 

Harold. Ay, if Wisdom 

Pair'd not with Good. But I am 

somewhat worn, 
A snatch of sleep were like the peace 

of God, 
Gurth, Leofwin, go once more about 

the hill — 
What did the dead man call it — 

Sanguelac, 
The lake of blood ? 

Leofwin. A lake that dips in Wil- 
liam 
As well as Harold. 

Harold. Like enough. I have 

seen 
The trenches dug, the palisades up- 
rear' d 
And wattled thick with ash and wil- 
low-wands, 
Yea, wrought at them myself. Go 
round once more ; no 

See all be sound and whole. No Nor- 
man horse 
Can shatter England, standing shield 

.by shield ; 
Tell that again to all. 

Gurth. I will, good brother. 

Harold. Our guardsman hath but 
toil'd his hand and foot, 
I hand, foot, heart and head. Some 
wine ! 
(One pours wine into a goblet which 
he hands to Harold. ) Too much ! 
What ? we must use our battle-axe to- 
day. 



SCENE I 



HAROLD 



807 



Our guardsman have slept well, since 
we came in ? 
Leofwin. Ay, slept and snored. 
Your second-sighted man 

That scared the dying conscience of 
the king 

Misheard their snores for groans. 
They are up again 120 

And chanting that old song of Bru- 
nanburg 

Where England conquer'd. 

Harold. That is well. The Nor- 
man, 

What is he doing ? 

Leofwin. Praying for Normandy ; 

Our scouts have heard the tinkle of 
their bells. 
Harold. And our old songs are 
prayers for England too ! 

But by all Saints — 

Leofwin. Barring the Norman ! 

Harold. Nay, 

Were the great trumpet blowing- 
doomsday dawn, 

I needs must rest. Call when the 
Norman moves — 

[Exeunt all but Harold. 

No horse — thousands of horses — our 
shield wall — 

Wall — break it not — break not — 

break — [Sleeps. 

Vision of Edward. Son Harold, I 

thy king, who came before 131 

To tell thee thou shouldst win at Stam- 
ford Bridge, 

Come yet once more, from where I am 
at peace, 

Because I loved thee in my mortal 
day, 

To tell thee thou shalt die on Senlac 
Hill — 

Sanguelac ! 

Vision of Wulfnoth. O brother, 
from my ghastly oubliette 

I send my voice across the narrow 
seas — 

No more, no more, dear brother, never- 
more — 

Sanguelac ! 140 

Vision of Tostig. O brother, most 
unbrotherlike to me, 

Thou gavest thy voice against me in 
my life, 

I give my voice against thee from the 
grave — 

Sanguelac ! 



Vision of Norman Saints. O hap- 
less Harold ! King but for an 

hour! 
Thou swarest falsely by our blessed 

bones, 
We give our voice against thee out of 

heaven ! 
Sanguelac ! Sanguelac ! The arrow ! 

the arrow ! 
Harold {starting up, battle-axe in 

hand). Away ! 

My battle-axe against your voices. 

Peace ! 
The King's last word — ' the arrow ! ' 

I shall die — 150 

I die for England then, who lived for 

England — 
What nobler ? men must die. 
I cannot fall into a falser world — 
I have done no man wrong. Tostig, 

poor brother, 
Art thou so anger'd ? 
Fain had I kept thine earldom in thy 

hands 
Save for thy wild and violent will that 

wrench'd 
All hearts of freemen from thee. I 

could do 
No other than this way advise the 

king 
Against the race of Godwin. Is it 

possible 160 

That mortal men should bear their 

earthly heats 
Into yon bloodless world, and threaten 

us thence 
Unschoord of Death ? Thus then thou 

art revenged — 
I left our England naked to the South 
To meet thee in the North. The Norse- 
man's raid 
Hath helpt the Norman, and the race 

of Godwin 
Hath ruin'd Godwin. No — our wak- 
ing thoughts 
Suffer a stormless shipwreck in the 

pools 
Of sullen slumber, and arise again 
Disjointed ; only dreams — whei*e 

mine own self 170 

Takes part against myself ! Why ? for 

a spark 
Of self-disdain born in me when I 

sware 
Falsely to him, the falser Norman, 

over 



8o8 



HAROLD 



ACT V 



His gilded ark of mummy- saints, by 
whom 

I knew not that I sware, — not for my- 
self— 

For England — yet not wholly — 

Enter Edith. 

Edith, Edith, 
Get thou into thy cloister as the King 
Will'd it; be safe, the per j ury-monger- 

ing Count 
Hath made too good an use of Holy 

Church 
To break her close ! There the great 
God of truth 180 

Fill all thine hours with peace! — A 

lying devil 
Hath haunted me — mine oath — my 

wife — I fain 
Had made my marriage not a lie ; I 

could not. 
Thou art my bride ! and thou in after 

years 
Praying perchance for this poor soul 

of mine 
In cold, white cells beneath an icy 

moon — 
This memory to thee ! — and this to 

England, 
My legacy of war against the Pope 
From child to child, from Pope to 

Pope, from age to age, 
Till the sea wash her level with her 
shores, 190 

Or till the Pope be Christ's. 
Enter Aldwyth. 
Aldwyth {to Edith). Away from him ! 
Edith. I will. — I have not spoken 
to the king 
One word ; and one I must. Farewell ! 

[ Going. 
Harold. Not yet. 

Stay. 
Edith. To what use ? 
Harold. The King commands thee, 
woman ! 

(To Aldwyth.) 
Have thy two brethren sent their 
forces in ? 
Aldwyth. Nay, I fear not. 
Harold. Then there's no force in 
thee! 
Thou didst possess thyself of Edward's 

ear 
To part me from the woman that I 
loved ! 



Thou didst arouse the fierce Northum- 
brians ! 
Thou hast been false to England and 
to me ! 200 

As — in some sort — I have been false 

to thee. 
Leave me. No more — Pardon on 
both sides — Go ! 
Aldicyth. Alas, my lord, I loved thee. 
Harold (bitterly). With a love 

Passing thy love for Griffyth ! where- 
fore now 
Obey my first and last commandment. 
Go! 
Aldwyth. O Harold! husband! Shall 

we meet again ? 
Harold. After the battle — after the 

battle. Go. 
Aldicyth. I go. (Aside.) That I 
could stab her standing there ! 
[Exit Aldwyth. 
Edith. Alas, my lord, she loved thee. 
Harold. Never ! never ! 

Edith. I saw it in her eyes ! 
Harold. I see it in thine. 

And not on thee — nor England — fall 
God's doom ! 211 

Edith. On thee f on me ! And thou 
art England ! Alfred 
Was England. Ethelred was nothing. 

England 
Is but her king, and thou art Harold ! 
Harold. Edith, 

The sign in heaven — the sudden blast 

at sea — 
My fatal oath — the dead Saints — 

the dark dreams — 
The Pope's anathema — the Holy Rood 
That bow'd tome at Walt-ham — Edith, 

if 

I, the last English King of England — 

Edith. No, 

First of a line that coming from the 

people, 220 

And chosen by the people — 

Harold. And fighting for 

And dying for the people — 
Edith. Living! living ! 

Harold. Yea so, good cheer! thou 
art Harold, I am Edith ! 
Look not thus wan ! 

Edith. What matters how I look ? 
Have we not broken Wales and Norse- 
land ? slain, 
Whose life was all one battle, incar- . 
nate war, 



SCENE I 



HAROLD 



809 



Their giant-king, a mightier man-in- 
arms 
Than William. 
Harold. Ay, my girl, no tricks in 
him — 
No bastard he ! when all was lost, he 

yell'd, 
And bit his shield, and dash'd it on the 
ground, 230 

And swaying his two-handed sword 

about him, 
Two deaths at every swing, ran in 

upon us 
And died so, and I loved him as I hate 
This liar who made me liar. If Hate 

can kill, 
And Loathing wield a Sa*xon battle- 
axe — 
Edith. Waste not thy might before 

the battle! 
Harold. No, 

And thou must hence. Stigand will 

see thee safe, 
And so — Farewell. 

[He is going, but turns back. 

The ring thou darest not wear, 

I have had it fashion'd, see, to meet 

my hand. 

[Harold shows the ring which is on 

his finger. 

Farewell ! 240 

[He is going, but turns bach again. 

I am dead as Death this day to aught 

of earth's 
Save William's death or mine. 

Edith. Thy death ! — to-day ! 

Is it not thy birthday ? 

Harold. Ay, that happy day ! 

A birthday welcome ! happy days and 

many! 
One — this ! [ They embrace. 

Look, I will bear thy blessing into the 

battle 
And front the doom of God. 

Norman Cries {heard in the distance). 
Ha Rou ! Ha Rou ! 

Enter Gtjrth. 

Gurth. The Norman moves ! 
Harold. Harold and Holy Cross ! 
[Exeunt Harold and Gurth. 
Enter Stigand. 
Stigand. Our Church in arms — the 
lamb the lion — not 
Spear into pruning-hook — the counter 
way — 250 



Cowl, helm ; and crozier, battle-axe. 

Abbot Alf wig, 
Leofric, and all the monks of Peter - 

boro' 
Strike for the king ; but I, old wretch, 

old Stigand, 
With hands too limp to brandish iron 

— and yet 
I have a power — would Harold ask 

me for it 
I have a power. 
Edith. What power, holy father ? 
Stigand. Power now from Harold 

to command thee hence 
And see thee safe from Senlac. 
Edith. I remain ! 

Stigand. Yea, so will I, daughter, 

until I rind 
Which way the battle balance. I can 

see it 260 

From where we stand; and, live or 

die, I would 
I were among them ! 

Canons from Waltham (singing 
without). 

Salva patriam, 
Sancte Pater, 
Salva, Fili, 
Salva, Spiritus, 
Salva patriam, 
Sancta Mater. 1 

Edith. Are those the blessed angels 

quiring, father? 
Stigand. No, daughter, but the 
canons out of Waltham, 270 
The king's foundation, that have fol- 
low'd him. 
Edith. O God of battles, make 
their wall of shields 
Firm as thy cliffs, strengthen their 

palisades ! 
What is that whirring sound ? 

Stigand. The Norman arrow ! 

Edith. Look out upon the battle — 

is he safe ? 
Stigand. The King of England 
stands between his banners. 
He glitters on the crowning of the 

hill. 
God save King Harold ! 

Edith. — chosen by his people 

And fighting for his people ! 

Stigand. ' There is one 

1 The a throughout these Latin hymns 
should be sounded broad, as in 'father.' 



8io 



HAROLD 



ACT V 



Come as Goliath came of yore — he 
flings 280 

His brand in air and catches it again, 
He is chanting some old war-song. 

Edith. And no David 

To meet him ? 
Stigand, Ay, there springs a Saxon 
on him, 
Falls — and another falls. 

Edith. Have mercy on us ! 

Stigand. Lo ! our good Gurth hath 

smitten him to the death. 
Edith. So perish all the enemies of 
Harold ! 

Canons {singing). 

Host is in Angliam 

Ruit prsedator ; 
Illorum, Domine, 

Scutum scindatur ! 290 

Hostis per Angliae 

Plagas bacchatur ; 

Casa crematur, 

Pastor fugatur, 

Grex trucidatur — 

Stigand. Illos trucida, Domine. 
Edith. Ay, good father. 

Canons {singing). 

Illorum scelera 
Poena sequatur ! 

English Cries. Harold and Holy 

Cross ! Out ! out ! 
Stigand. Our javelins 

Answer their arrows. All the Nor- 
man foot 300 
Are storming up the hill. The range 

of knights 
Sit, each a statue on his horse, and 
wait. 
English Cries. Harold and God Al- 
mighty ! 
Norman Cries. Ha Rou ! Ha Rou ! 
Canons {singing). 

Eques cum pedite 

Praepediatur ! 
Illorum in lacrymas 

Cruor fundatur ! 
Pereant, pereant, 

Anglia precatur. 

Stigand. Look, daughter, look. 
Edith. Nay, father, look for me ! 
Stigand. Our axes lighten with a 

single flash 311 

About the summit of the hill, and 

heads 



And arms are sliver' d off and splin- 
ter' d by 
Their lightning — and they fly — the 
Norman flies. 
Edith. Stigand, O father, have we 

won the day ? 
Stigand. No, daughter, no — they 
fall behind the horse — 
Their horse are thronging to the bar- 
ricades ; 
I see the gonfanon of Holy Peter 
Floating above their helmets — ha ! he 
is down ! 
Edith. He down ! Who down ? 
Stigand. The Norman Count is 

down. 320 

Edith. So perish all the enemies of 

England ! 
Stigand. No, no, he hath risen 
again — he bares his face — 
Shouts something — he points onward 

— all their horse 
Swallow the hill locust-like, swarming 
up. 
Edith. O God of battles, make his 
battle-axe keen 
As thine own sharp-dividing justice, 

heavy 
As thine own bolts that fall on crime- 

ful heads 
Charged with the weight of heaven 
wherefrom they fall ! 

Canons {singing). 

Jacta tonitrua, 

Deus bellator ! 330 

Surgas e tenebris, 

Sis vindicator ! 
Fulmina, fulmina, 

Deus vastator ! 

Edith. O God of battles, they are 
three to one, 
Make thou one man as three to roll 
them down ! 

Canons {singing). 

Equus cum equite 

Dejiciatur ! 
Acies, acies 

Prona sternatur ! 340 

Illorum lanceas 

Frange, Creator ! 

Stigand. Yea, yea, for how their 
lances snap and shiver 
Against the shifting blaze of Harold's 
axe ! 



SCENE II 



HAROLD 



811 



War- woodman of old Woden, how he 
fells 

The mortal copse of faces ! There ! 
And there ! 

The horse and horseman cannot meet 
the shield, 

The blow that brains the horseman 
cleaves the horse, 

The horse and horseman roll along the 
hill, 

They fly once more, they fly, the Nor- 
man flies ! 350 

Equus cum equite 
Praecipitatur. 

Edith. O God, the God of truth 
hath heard my cry ! 
Follow them, follow them, drive them 
to the sea ! 

Illorum scelera 
Poena sequatur ! 

Stigand. Truth ! no ; a lie ; a trick, 
a Norman trick ! 
They turn on the pursuer, horse 

against foot, 
They murder all that follow. 
Edith. Have mercy on us ! 

Stigand. Hot-headed fools — to 
burst the wall of shields ! 360 
They have broken the commandment 
of the king ! 
Edith. His oath was broken — 
holy Norman Saints, 
Ye that are now of heaven, and see 

beyond 
Your Norman shrines, pardon it, par- 
don it, 
That he forsware himself for all he 

loved, 
Me, me and all ! Look out upon the 
battle ! 
Stigand. They thunder again upon 
the barricades. 
My sight is eagle, but the strife so 

thick — 
This is the hottest of it ; hold, ash ! 
hold, willow ! 
English Cries. Out, out ! 
Norman Cries. Ha Rou ! 
Stigand. Ha ! Gurth had leapt 
upon him 370 

And slain him ; he hath fallen. 

Edith. And I am heard. 

Glory to God in the Highest ! fallen, 
fallen ! 



Stigand. No, no, his horse — he 

mounts another — wields 
His war-club, dashes it on Gurth, and 

Gurth, 
Our noble Gurth, is down ! 
Edith. Have mercy on us ! 

Stigand. And Leofwin is down ! 
Edith. Have mercy on us ! 

O Thou that knowest, let not my 

strong prayer 
Be weaken'd in thy sight, because I 

love 
The husband of another ! 
Norman Cries. Ha Rou ! Ha Rou ! 
Edith. I do not hear our English 

war-cry. 
Stigand. No. 380 

Edith. Look out upon the battle — 

is he safe ? 
Stigand. He stands between the 

banners with the dead 
So piled about him he can hardly move. 
Edith {takes up the icar-cry). Out ! 

out ! 
Norman Cries. Ha Rou ! 
Edith {cries out). Harold and Holy 

Cross ! 
Norman Cries. Ha Rou ! Ha Rou ! 
Edith. What is that whirring 

sound ? . 
Stigand. The Norman sends his 

arrows up to heaven, 
They fall on those within the palisade ! 
Edith. Look out upon the hill — 

is Harold there ? 
Stigand. Sanguelac — Sanguelac — 

the arrow — the arrow ! — away ! 

Scene II 

Field of the Dead. Night 

Aldwyth and Edith. 

Aldicyth. O Edith, art thou here ? 
O Harold, Harold -- 

Our Harold — we shall never see him 
more. 
Edith. For there was more than 
sister in my kiss, 

And so the Saints were wroth. I can- 
not love them, 

For they are Norman Saints — and 
yet I should — 

They are so much holier than their 
harlot's son 



8l2 



HAROLD 



ACT V 



With whom they play'd their game 
against the King ! 
Aldwyth. The King is slain, the 

kingdom overthrown ! 
Edith. No matter ! 
Aldwyth. How no matter, Harold 
slain ? — 
I cannot find his body. O, help me 
thou ! 10 

Edith, if I ever wrought against 

thee, 
Forgive me thou, and help me here ! 
Edith. No matter ! 

Aldwyth. Not help me, nor forgive 

me? 
Edith. So thou saidest. 
Aldwyth. I say it now, forgive me ! 
Edith. Cross me not ! 

1 am seeking one who wedded me in 

secret. 
Whisper ! God's angels only know it. 

Ha! 
What art thou doing here among the 

dead? 
They are stripping the dead bodies 

naked yonder, 
And thou art come to rob them of 
their rings ! 
Aldicyth. O Edith, Edith, I have 
lost both crown 20 

And husband. 
Edith. So have I. 

Aldwyth. I tell thee, girl, 

I am seeking my dead Harold. 

Edith. And I mine ! 

The Holy Father strangled him with 

a hair 
Of Peter, and his brother Tostig 

helpt ; 
The wicked sister clapt her hands and 

laugh'd ; 
Then all the dead fell on him. 

Aldicyth. Edith, Edith — 

Edith. What was he like, this hus- 
band ? like to thee ? 
Call not for help from me. I knew 

him not. 
He lies not here ; not close beside the 

standard. 
Here fell the truest, manliest hearts 
of England. 30 

Go further hence and find him. 
Aldwyth. She is crazed ! 

Edith. That doth not matter either : 
Lower the light. 
He must be here. 



Enter two Canons, Osgod and Athel- 
ric, with torches. They turn over tlie 
dead bodies and examine them as tliey 
pass. 
Osgod. I think that this is Thur- 

kill. 
Athelric. More likely Godric. 
Osgod. I am sure this body 

Is Alfwig, the king's uncle. 

Athelric. So it is ! 

No, no, — brave Gurth, one gash from 
brow to knee ! 
Osgod. And here is Leofwin. 
Edith. And here is he ! 

Aldwyth. Harold? O, no — nay, if 
it were — my God, 
They have so maim'd and murder'd 

all his face 
There is no man can swear to him ! 

Edith. But one woman ! 

Look you, we never mean to part 

again. 41 

I have found him, I am happy. 

Was there not some one ask'd me for 

forgiveness ? 
I yield it freely, being the true wife 
Of this dead King, who never bore 

revenge. 
Enter Count William and William 
Malet. 
William. Who be these women. 

And what body is this ? 
Edith. Harold, thy better ! 
William. Ay, and what art thou ? 
Edith. His wife! 

Malet. Not true, my girl, here is 
the Queen! 

[Pointing out Aldwyth. 
William {to Aldwyth). Wast thou 

his Queen ? 

Aldwyth. I was the Queen of Wales. 

William. Why, then of England. 

Madam, fear us not. 50 

{To Malet.) Knowest thou this 

other ? 
Malet. When I visited England, 
Some held she was his wife in secret 

— some — 
Well — some believed she was his 
paramour. 
Edith. Norman, thou liest ! liars all 
of you, 
Your Saints and all! / am his wife! 

and she — 
For look, our marriage, ring ! 
[She draws it off the finger of Harold. 



SCENE II 



HAROLD 



5i3 




Battle Abbey 



I lost it somehow — 
I lost it, playing with it when I was 

wild. 
That bred the doubt ! but I am wiser 

now — 
I am too wise — Will none among you 

all 
Bear me true witness — only for this 
once — 60 

That I have found it here again ? 

[She puts it on. 

And thou, 

Thy wife am I for ever and evermore. 

[Falls on the body and dies. 

William. Death! — and enough of 

death for this one day, 

The day of Saint Calixtus, and the 

day, 
My day when I was born. 

Malet. And this dead King's, 

Who, king or not, hath kinglike 

fought and fallen, 
His birthday, too. It seems but yes- 

ter-even 
I held it with him in his English 
halls, 



His day, with all his roof-tree ringing 

< Harold/ 
Before he fell into the snare of Guy ; 
When all men counted Harold would 

be King, 7 i 

And Harold was most happy. 

William. Thou art half English. 
Take them away ! 
Malet, I vow to build a church to 

God 
Here on the hill of battle ; let our 

high altar 
Stand where their standard fell — 

wliere these two lie. 
Take them away, I do not love to see 

them. 
Pluck the dead woman off the dead 

man. Malet ! 
Malet. Faster than ivy ! Must I 

hack her arms off ? 
How shall I part them \ 

William. Leave them. Let them 

be ! 80 

Bury him and his paramour together. 
He that was false in oath to me, it 



814 



HAROLD 



ACT V 



Was false to his own wife. We will 

not give him 
A Christian burial ; yet he was a war- 
rior, 
And wise, yea truthful, till that 

blighted vow 
Which God avenged to-day. 
Wrap them together in a purple cloak, 
And lay them both upon the waste 

sea-shore 
At Hastings, there to guard the land 

for which 
He did forswear himself — a warrior 

— ay, 90 

And but that Holy Peter fought for 

us, 
And that the false Northumbrian held 

aloof, 
And save for that chance arrow which 

the Saints 
Sharpen' d and sent against him — 

who can tell ? — 
Three horses had I slain beneath me ; 

twice 
I thought that all was lost. Since I 

knew battle, 
And that was from my boyhood, 

never yet — 



No, by the splendor of God — have I 
fought men 

Like Harold and his brethren, and his 
guard 

Of English. Every man about his 
king 100 

Fell where he stood. They loved 
him ; and pray God 

My Normans may but move as true 
with me 

To the door of death! Of one self- 
stock at first, 

Make them again one people — Nor- 
man, English, 

And English, Norman ; we should 
have a hand 

To grasp the world with, and a foot 
to stamp it — 

Flat. Praise the Saints ! It is over. 
No more blood ! 

I am King of England, so they thwart 
me not, 

And I will rule according to their 
laws. 

{To Aldwyth.) Madam, we will en- 
treat thee with all honor. no 
Aldwyth. My punishment is more 
than I can bear. 




Lord Selborne (Roundell Palmer) 



BECKET 



To the Lord Chancellor, 

THE RIGHT HONORABLE EARL OF SELBORNE. 

My dear Selborne, — To you, the honored Chancellor of our own day, I dedicate 
this dramatic memorial of your great predecessor ; — which, altho' not intended in its 
present form to meet the exigencies of our modern theatre, has nevertheless — for so you 
have assured me — won your approbation. Ever yours, Tennyson. 



DRAMATIS PERSONS 

Henry II. (son of the Earl of Anjou). 

Thomas Becket, Chancellor of England, afterwards Archbishop of Canterbury. 

Gilbert Foliot, Bishop of London. 

Roger, Archbishop of York. 

Bishop of Hereford. 



8i6 



BECKET 



PROLOGUE 



Hilary, Bishop of Chichester. 
Jocelyn, Bishop of Salisbury. 

John of Salisbury \ friend8 ofBecket. 

Herbert of .Bosham !*'■•' 

Walter Map, reputed author of ' Golias,' Latin poems against the priesthood. 

King Louis of France. 

Geoffrey, son of Rosamund and Henry. 

Grim, a monk of Cambridge. 

Sir Reginald' Fitzurse ) 

Sir Richard de Brito ' h - hniqhts of the Una's household, enemies of Becket. 

Sir William de Tracy f J * J * J 

Sir Hugh de Morville J 

De Broc of Saltwood Castle. • 

Lord Leicester. 

Philip de Eleemosyna. 

Two Knight Templars. 

John of Oxford (called the Swearer). 

Eleanor of Aquitaine, Queen of England (divorced from Louis of France). 

Rosamund de Clifford. 

Margery. 

Knights, Monks, Beggars, etc. 



BECKET 

PROLOGUE 

A Castle in Normandy. Interior 
of the Hall. Roofs of a City 
seen thro' Windows 

Henry and Becket at chess. 

Henry. So then our good Archbishop 
Theobald 
Lies dying. 
Becket. I am grieved to know as 

much. 
Henry. But we must have a mightier 
man than he 
For his successor. 

Becket. Have you thought of one ? 
Henry. A cleric lately poison' d his 
own mother, 
And being brought before the courts 

of the Church, 
They but degraded him. I hope they 

whipt him. 
I would have hang'd him. 
Becket. It is your move. 
Henry. Well — there. [Moves. 

The Church in the pell-mell of Ste- 
phen's time 
Hath climb'd the throne and almost 
clutch'd the crown ; 10 

But by the royal customs of our realm 
The Church should hold her baronies 

of me, 
Like other lords amenable to law. 



I '11 have them written down and made 
the law. 
Becket. My liege, I move my bishop. 
Henry. And if I live, 

No man without my leave shall ex- 
communicate 
My tenants or my household. 
Becket. Look to your king. 

Henry. No man without my leave 
shall cross the seas 
To set the Pope against me — I pray 
your pardon. i 9 

Becket. Well — will you move ? 
Henry. There. [Moves. 

Becket. Check — you move so wildly. 
Henry. There then ! [Moves. 

Becket. Why — there then, for you 
see my bishop 
Hath brought your king to a standstill. 
You are beaten. 
Henry (kicks over the board). Why, 
there then — down go bishop 
and king together. 
I loathe being beaten ; had I fixt my 

fancy 
Upon the game I should have beaten 

thee, 
But that was vagabond. 

Becket. Where, my liege ? With 
Phryne, 
Or Lais, or thv Rosamund, or an- 
other ? 
Henry. My Rosamund is no Lais, 
Thomas Becket ; 
And yet she plagues me too — no fault 
in her — 



PROLOGUE 



BECKET 



817 



But that I fear the Queen would have 

her life. 30 

Becket. Put her away, put her away, 

my liege ! 
Put her away into a nunnery ! 
Safe enough there from her to whom 

thou art bound 
By Holy Church. And wherefore 

should she seek 
The life of Rosamund de Clifford more 
Than that of other paramours of 

thine ? 
Henry. How dost thou know I am 

not wedded to her ? 
Becket. How should I know ? 
Henry. That is my secret, Thomas. 
Becket. State secrets should be pa- 
tent to the statesman 
Who serves and loves his king, and 

whom the king 40 

Loves not as statesman, but true lover 

and friend. 
Henry. Come, come, thou art but 

deacon, not yet bishop, 
No, nor archbishop, nor my confessor 

yet. 
I would to God thou wert, for I should 

find 
An easy father confessor in thee. 
Becket. Saint Denis, that thou 

shouldst not. I should beat 
Thy kingship as my bishop hath beaten 

it. 
Henry. Hell take thy bishop then, 

and my kingship too ! 
Come, come, I love thee and I know 

thee, I know thee, 
A doter on white pheasant -flesh at 

feasts, 50 

A sauce-deviser for thy days of fish, 
A dish-designer, and most amorous 
Of good old red sound liberal Gascon 

wine. 
Will not thy body rebel, man, if thou 

flatter it ? 
Becket. That palate is insane which 

cannot tell 
A good dish from a bad, new wine 

from old. 
Henry. Well, who loves wine loves 

woman. 
Becket. So I do. 

Men are God's trees, and women are 

God's flowers ; 
And when the Gascon wine mounts to 

my head, 



The trees are all the statelier, and the 
flowers 60 

Are all the fairer. 

Henry. And thy thoughts, thy fan- 
cies ? 
Becket. Good dogs, my liege, well 
train'd, and easily call'd 
Off from the game. 

Henry. Save for some once or twice, 
When they ran down the game and 
worried it. 
Becket. No, my liege, no ! — not once 

— in God's name, no ! 
Henry. Nay, then, I take thee at 
thy word — believe thee 
The veriest Galahad of old Arthur's 

hall. 
And so this Rosamund, my true heart- 
wife, 
Not Eleanor — she whom I love in- 
deed 
As a woman should be loved — Why 
dost thou smile 70 

So dolorously ? 

Becket. My good liege, if a man 

Wastes himself among women, how 

should he love 
A woman as a woman should be loved ? 
Henry. How shouldst thou know 
that never hast loved one ? 
Come, I would give her to thy care in 

England 
When I am out in Normandy or Anjou. 
Becket. My lord, I am your sub- 

3 ect, not your — 
Henry. Pander. 

God's eyes ! I know all that — not 

my purveyor 
Of pleasures, but to save a life — her 

life ; 
Ay, and the soul of Eleanor from hell- 
fire. 80 
I have built a secret bower in Eng- 
land, Thomas, 
A nest in a bush. 

Becket. And where, my liege ? 
Henry {whispers), Thine ear. 

Becket. That 's lone enough. 
Henry (laying paper on table). This 
chart" here mark'd ' Her /?<>/r< r,' 
Take, keep it, friend. See, first, a 

circling wood, 
A hundred pathways running every- 
way, 
And then a brook, a bridge ; and after 
that 



8i8 



BECKET 



PROLOGUE 



This labyrinthine brickwork maze in 

maze, 
And then another wood, and in the 

midst 
A garden and my Rosamund. Look, 

this line — 
The rest you see is color'd green — 
but this 9° 

Draws thro' the chart to her. 

Becket. This blood-red line ? 

Henry. Ay ! blood, perchance, ex- 
cept thou see to her. 
Becket. And where is she ? There 

in her English nest ? 
Henry. Would God she were! — 
no, here within the city. 
We take her from her secret bower in 

Anjou 
And pass her to her secret bower in 

England. 
She is ignorant of all but that I love 
her. 
Becket. My liege, I pray thee let 
me hence ; a widow 
And orphan child, whom one of thy 
wild barons — 
Henry. Ay, ay, but swear to see to 
her in England. ioo 

Becket. Well, well, I swear, but 

not to please myself. 
Henry. Whatever come between us? 
Becket. What should come 

Between us, Henry ? 

Henry. Nay — I know not, Thomas. 

Becket. What need then? Well 

— whatever come between us. 

[Going. 

Henry. A moment ! thou didst help 

me to my throne 

In Theobald's time, and after by thy 

wisdom 
Hast kept it firm from shaking ; but 

now I, 
For my realm's sake, myself must be 

the wizard 
To raise that tempest which will set it 

trembling 
Only to base it deeper. I, true son no 
Of Holy Church — no croucher to the 

Gregories 
That tread the kings their children 

under-heel — 
Must curb her ; and the Holy Father, 

while 
This Barbarossa butts him from his 
chair, 



Will need my help — be facile to my 

hands. 
Now is my time. Yet — lest there 

should be flashes 
And fulminations from the side of 

Rome, 
An interdict on England — I will have 
My young son Henry crown'd the 

King of England, 
That so the Papal bolt may pass by 
England, 120 

As seeming his, not mine, and fall 

abroad. 
I '11 have it done — and now. 

Becket. Surely too young 

Even for this shadow of a crown ; and 

tho' 
I love him heartily, I can spy already 
A strain of hard and headstrong in 

him. Say, 
The Queen should play his kingship 
against thine ! 
Henry. I will not think so, Thomas. 
Who shall crown him ? 
Canterbury is dying. 
Becket. The next Canterbury. 

Henry. And who shall he be, my 

friend Thomas ? Who ? 
Becket. Name him ; the Holy Fa- 
ther will confirm him. 130 
Henry (lays his hand on Becket' s 

shoulder). Here ! 
Becket. Mock me not. I am not 
even a monk. 
Thy jest — no more. Why — look — 

is this a sleeve 
For an archbishop ? 

Henry. But the arm within 

Is Becket's, who hath beaten down 
my foes. 
Becket. A soldier's, not a spiritual 

arm. 
Henry. I lack a spiritual soldier, 
Thomas — 
A man of this world and the next to 
boot. 
Becket. There 's Gilbert Foliot. 
Henry. He ! too thin, too thin. 

Thou art the man to fill out the Church 

robe ; 
Your Foliot fasts and fawns too much 
for me. 140 

Becket. Roger of York. 
Henry. Roger is Roger of York ,• 
King, Church, and State to him but 
foils wherein 



PROLOGUE 



BECKET 



819 



To set that precious jewel, Roger of 

York. 
No. 

Becket. Henry of Winchester ? 
Henry. Him who crown'd 

Stephen — 
King Stephen's brother ! No ; too 

royal for me. 
And I'll have no more Anselms. 

Becket. Sire, the business 

Of thy whole kingdom waits me ; let 
me go. 
Henry. Answer me first. 
Becket. Then for thy barren jest 
Take thou mine answer in bare com- 
monplace — 
Nolo episcopari. 

Henry. Ay, but Nolo 150 

' Archiepiscopari, my good friend, 
Is quite another matter. 

Becket. A more awful one. 

Make me archbishop ! Why, my liege, 

I know 
Some three or four poor priests a thou- 
sand times 
Fitter for this grand function. Me 

archbishop ! 
God's favor and king's favor might so 

clash 
That thou and I — That were a jest 
indeed ! 
Henry. Thou angerest me, man ; I 
do not j est. 

Enter Eleanor and Sir Reginald 
Fitzurse. 

Eleanor (singing). 

Over ! the sweet summer closes, 
The reign of the roses is done — 160 

Henry (to Becket, who is going). 
Thou shalt not go. I have not 
ended with thee. 

Eleanor (seeing chart on table.) This 
chart with the red line ! her bower ! 
whose bower ? 

Henry. The chart is not mine, but 
Becket's ; take it, Thomas. 

Eleanor. Becket ! O, — ay — and 
these chessmen on the floor — the 
king's crown broken ! Becket hath 
beaten thee again — and thou hast 
kicked down the board. I know thee 
of old. 172 

Henry. True enough, my mind was 
set upon other matters. 



Eleanor. What matters? State 
matters ? love matters ? 

Henry. My love for thee, and 
thine for me. 

Eleanor. 



Over ! the sweet summer closes, 
The reign of the roses is done ; 

Over and gone with the roses, 
And over and gone with the sun. 



[80 



Here ; but our sun in Aquitaine 
lasts longer. I would I were in Aqui- 
taine again — your North chills me. 

Over ! the sweet summer closes, 
And never a flower at the close ; 

Over and gone with the roses, 
And winter again and the snows. 189 

That was not the way I ended it first 
— but unsymmetrically, preposter- 
ously, illogically, out of passion, with- 
out art — like a song of the people. 
Will you have it ? The last Parthian 
shaft of a forlorn Cupid at the King's 
left breast, and all lef t-handedness and 
under-handedness. 

And never a flower at the close ; 
Over and gone with the roses, 
Not over and gone with the rose. 200 

True, one rose will outblossom the 
rest, one rose in a bower. I speak 
after my fancies, for I am a Trouba- 
dour, you know, and won the violet 
at Toulouse ; but my voice is harsh 
here, not in tune, a nightingale out of 
season ; for marriage, rose or no rose, 
has killed the golden violet. 

Becket. Madam, you do ill to scorn 
wedded love. 210 

Eleanor. So I do. Louis of France 
loved me, and I dreamed that I loved 
Louis of France : and I loved Henry 
of England, and Henry of England 
dreamed that he loved me ; but the 
marriage-garland withers even with 
the putting on, the bright link rusts 
with the breath of the first after-mar- 
riage kiss, the harvest moon is the 
ripening of the harvest, and the honey- 
moon is the gall of Love ; he dies of 
his honey-moon. I could pity this 
poor world myself that it is no better 
ordered. 224 

Henry. Dead is he, my Queen ! 
What, altogether? Let me swear nay 



820 



BECKET 



PROLOGUE 



to that by this cross on thy neck. God's 
eyes ! what a lovely cross ! what 
jewels! 229 

Eleanor. Doth it please you ? Take 
it and wear it on that hard heart of 
yours — there. [Gives it to him. 

Henry (puts it on). On this left breast 
before so hard a heart, 
To hide the scar left by thy Parthian 
dart. 

Eleanor. Has my simple song set 
you jingling ? Nay, if I took and 
translated that hard heart into our Pro- 
vencal facilities, I could so play about 
it with the rhyme — 239 

Henry. That the heart were lost in 
the rhyme, and the matter in the metre. 
May we not pray you, madam, to spare 
us the hardness of your facility ? 

Eleanor. The wells of Castaly are 
not wasted upon the desert. We did 
but jest. 

Henry. There 's no j est on the brows 
of Herbert there. What is it, Herbert ? 

Enter Herbert of Bo sham. 

Herbert. My liege, the good arch- 
bishop is no more. 
Henry. Peace to his soul ! 250 

Herbert. I left him with peace on 
his face, — that sweet other-world 
smile, which will be reflected in the 
spiritual body among the angels. But 
he longed much to see your Grace and 
the Chancellor ere he past, and his last 
words were a commendation of Thomas 
Becket to your Grace as his successor 
in the archbishopric. 
Henry. Ha, Becket ! thou remem- 
berest our talk ! 260 

Becket. My heart is full of tears — I 

have no answer. 
Henry. Well, well, old men must 
die, or the world would grow mouldy, 
would only breed the past again. Come 
to me to-morrow. Thou hast but to 
hold out thy hand. Meanwhile the 
revenues are mine. A-hawking, a- 
hawking ! If I sit, I grow fat. 

[Leaps over the table, and exit. 

Becket. He did prefer me to the 

chancellorship, 

Believing I should ever aid the 

Church — 270 

But have I done it ? He commends me 



From out his grave to this archbishop- 
ric. 

Herbert. A dead man's dying wish 
should be of weight. 

Becket. His should. Come with me. 
Let me learn at full 
The manner of his death, and all he 
said. 

[Exeunt Herbert and Becket. 

Eleanor. Fitzurse, that chart with 
the red line — thou sawest it — her 
bower. 

Fitzurse. Rosamund's ? 279 

Eleanor. Ay — there lies the secret 
of her whereabouts, and the King gave 
it to his Chancellor. 

Fitzurse. To this son of a London 
merchant — how your Grace must hate 
him ! 

Eleanor. Hate him ? as brave a sol- 
dier as Henry and a goodlier man : but 
thou — dost thou love this Chancellor, 
that thou hast sworn a voluntary alle- 
giance to him ? 290 

Fitzurse. Not for my love toward 
him, but because he had the love of 
the King. How should a baron love a 
beggar on horseback, with the retinue 
of three kings behind him, out-royal- 
ling royalty ? Besides, he holp the King 
to break down our castles, for the 
which I hate him. 298 

Eleanor. For the which I honor him. 
Statesman, not ChurchmaD, he. A 
great and sound policy that ; I could 
embrace him for it : you could not see 
the King for the kinglings. 

Fitzurse. Ay, but he speaks to a no- 
ble as tho' he were a churl, and to a 
churl as if he were a noble. 

Eleanor. Pride of the plebeian ! 

Fitzurse. And this plebeian like to 
be Archbishop ! 

Eleanor. True, and 
herited loathing of these black sheep 
of the Papacy. Archbishop ? I can see 
further into a man than our hot-headed 
Henry, and if there ever come feud 
between Church and Crown, and I do 
not then charm this secret out of our 
loyal Thomas, I am not Eleanor. 317 

Fitzurse. Last night I followed a 
woman in the city here. Her face was 
veiled, but the back me thought was 
Rosamund — his paramour, thy rival. 
I can feel for thee. 



309 
I have an in- 



ACT I 



BECKET 



821 



Eleanor. Thou feel for me ! — para- 
mour — rival ! King Louis had no 
paramours, and I loved him none the 
more. Henry had many, and I loved 
him none the less — now neither more 
nor less — not at all ; the cup 's empty. 
I would she were but his paramour, 
for men tire of their fancies ; but I fear 
this one fancy hath taken root, and 
borne blossom too, and she, whom the 
King loves indeed, is a power in the 
State. Rival ! — ay, and when the 
King passes, there may come a crash 
and embroilment as in Stephen's time ; 
and her children — canst thou not — 
that secret matter which would heat 
the King against thee {whispers him and 
he starts). Nay, that is safe with me 
as with thyself ; but canst thou not — 
thou art drowned in debt — thou shalt 
have our love, our silence, and our 
gold — canst thou not — if thou light 
upon her — free me from her ? 345 

Fitzurse. Well, madam, I have loved 
her in my time. 

Eleanor. No, my bear, thou hast 
not. My Courts of Love would have 
held thee guiltless of love — the fine 
attractions and repulses, the delicacies, 
the subtleties. 

Fitzurse. Madam, I loved according 
to the main purpose the intent of Na- 
ture. 355 

Eleanor. I warrant thee ! thou 
would st hug thy Cupid till his ribs 
cracked — enough of this. Follow me 
this Rosamund day and night, whither- 
soever she goes ; track her, if thou 
canst, even into the King's lodging, 
that I may {clenches her fist) — may at 
least have my cry against him and her, 
— and thou in thy way shouldst be 
jealous of the King, for thou in thy 
way didst once, what shall I call it, 
affect her thine own self. 367 

Fitzurse. Ay, but the young colt 
winced and whinnied and flung up her 
heels ; and then the King came honey- 
ing about her, and this Becket, her 
father's friend, like enough staved us 
from her. 

Eleanor. Us ! 

Fitzurse. Yea, by the Blessed Vir- 
gin ! There were more than I buzzing 
round the blossom — De Tracy — even 
that flint De Brito. 378 



Eleanor. Carry her off among you ; 
run in upon her and devour her, one 
and all of you ; make her as hateful to 
herself and to the King as she is to me. 

Fitzurse. I and all would be glad to 
wreak our spite on the rose-faced min- 
ion of the King, and bring her to the 
level of the dust, so that the King — 

Eleanor. Let her eat it like the ser- 
pent, and be driven out of her paradise. 



ACT I 

Scene I. — Becket' s House in 
London 

Chamber barely furnished. Becket 
unrobing. Herbert of Bosham 
and Servant. 

Servant. Shall I not help your lord- 
ship to your rest ? 
Becket. Friend, am I so much better 
than thyself 
That thou shouldst help me? Thou 

art wearied out 
With this day's work ; get thee to thine 

own bed. 
Leave me with Herbert, friend. 

[Exit Servant. 
Help me off, Herbert, with this — and 
this. 
Herbert. Was not the people's bless- 
ing as we passed 
Heart-comfort and a balsam to thy 
blood ? 
Becket. The people know their 
Church a tower of strength, 
A bulwark against Throne and Baron 
age. 10 

Too heavy for me, this ; off with it, 
Herbert ! 
Herbert. Is it so much heavier than 

thy chancellor's robe ? 
Becket. No ; but the Chancellor's 
and the Archbishop's 
Together more than mortal man can 
bear. 
Herbert. Not heavier than thine 

armor at Toulouse ? 
Becket. O Herbert, Herbert, in my 
chancellorship 
I more than once have gone against 
the Church. 
Herbert. To please the King? 
Becket. Ay, and the King of kings, 



822 



BECKET 



ACT I 



Or justice ; for it seem'd to me but 
just 

The Church should pay her scutage 
like the lords. 20 

But hast thou heard this cry of Gilbert 
Foliot 

That I am not the man to be your pri- 
mate, 

For Henry could not work a miracle — 

Make an archbishop of a soldier ? 
Herbert. Ay, 

For Gilbert Foliot held himself the 
man. 
Becket. Am I the man ? My mother, 
ere she bore me, 

Dream' d that twelve stars fell glitter- 
ing out of heaven 

Into her bosom. 
Herbert. Ay, the fire, the light, 

The spirit of the twelve Apostles en- 
ter'd 

Into thy making. 
Becket. And when I was a child, 

The Virgin, in a vision of my sleep, 31 

Gave me the golden keys of Paradise. 
Dream, 

Or prophecy, that ? 
Herbert. Well, dream and prophecy 

both. 
Becket. And when I was of Theo- 
bald's household, once — 

The good old man would sometimes 
have his jest — 

He took his mitre off, and set it on me, 

And said, 'My young archbishop — 
thou wouldst make 

A stately archbishop!' Jest or pro- 
phecy there ? 
Herbert. Both, Thomas, both. 
Becket. Am I the man ? That rang 

Within my head last night, and when 
I slept 4 o 

Methought I stood in Canterbury 
Minster, 

And spake to the Lord God, and said, 
' O Lord, 

I have been a lover of wines, and deli- 
cate meats, 

And secular splendors, and a favorer 

Of players, and a courtier, and a feeder 

Of dogs and hawks, and apes, and 
lions, and lynxes. 

Am I the man ? ' And the Lord an- 
swer' d me, 

' Thou art the man, and all the more 
the man.' 



And then I asked again, ' O Lord my 

God, 
Henry the King hath been my friend, 

my brother, 50 

And mine uplifter in this world, and 

chosen me 
For this thy great archbishopric, be- 
lieving 
That I should go against the Church 

with him, 
And I shall go against him with the 

Church, 
And I have said no word of this to him. 
Am I the man ? ' And the Lord an- 

swer'd me, 
' Thou art the man, and all the more 

the man.' 
And thereupon, methought, He drew 

toward me, 
And smote me down upon the minster 

floor. 
I fell. 
Herbert. God make not thee, but 

thy foes, fall ! 60 

Becket. I fell. Why fall? Why 

did He smite me ? What ? 
Shall I fall off — to please the King 

once more ? 
Not fight — tho' somehow traitor to 

the King — 
My truest and mine utmost for the 

Church ? 
Herbert. Thou canst not fall that 

way. Let traitor be ; 
For how have fought thine utmost 

for the Church, 
Save from the throne of thine arch- 
bishopric ? 
And how been made archbishop hadst 

thou told him, 
' I mean to fight mine utmost for the 

Church, 
Against the King' ? 
Becket. But dost thou think the 

King 70 

Forced mine election ? 

Herbert. I do think the King 

Was potent in the election, and why 

not? 
Why should not Heaven have so in- 
spired the King ? . 
Be comforted. Thou art the man — 

be thou 
A mightier Anselm. 
Becket. I do believe thee, then. I 

am the man. 



SCENE I 



BECKET 



823 



And yet I seem appall'd — on such a 

sudden 
At such an eagle-height I stand and 

see 
The rift that runs between me and 

the King. 
I served our Theobald well when I 

was with him ; 80 

I served King Henry well as Chancel- 
lor ; 
I am his no more, and I must serve 

the Church. 
This Canterbury is only less than 

Rome, 
And all my doubts I fling from me 

like dust, 
Winnow and scatter all scruples to 

the wind, 
And all the puissance of the warrior, 
And all the wisdom of the Chancel- 
lor, 
And all the heap'd experiences of 

life, 
I cast upon the side of Canterbury — 
Our holy mother Canterbury, who sits 
With tatter'd robes. Laics and barons, 

thro' 91 

The random gifts of careless kings, 

have graspt 
Her livings, her advowsons, granges, 

farms, 
And goodly acres — we will make her 

whole ; 
Not one rood lost. And for these 

Royal customs, 
These ancient Royal customs — they 

are Royal, 
Not of the Church — and let them be 

anathema. 
And all that speak for them anathema. 
Herbert. Thomas, thou art moved 

too much. 
Becket. O Herbert, here 

I gash myself asunder from the King, 
Tho' leaving each, a wound ; mine 

own, a grief 101 

To show the scar for ever — his, a 

hate 
Not ever to be heal'd. 
Enter Rosamund de Clifford, fly- 
ing from Sir Reginald Fitzurse. 
Drops her veil. 

Becket. Rosamund de Clifford ! 

Rosamund. Save me, father, hide 
me — they follow me — and I must 
not be known. 



Becket. Pass in with Herbert there. 
[Exeunt Rosamund and Herbert 
by side door. 

Enter Fitzurse. 
Fitzurse. The archbishop ! 
Becket. Ay! what wouldst thou, 

Reginald ? 
Fitzurse. Why — why, .my lord, I 

follow'd — follow'd one 
Becket. And then what follows? 
Let me follow thee. no 

Fitzurse. It much imports me 1 

should know her name. 
Becket. What her ? 
Fitzurse. The woman that I fol- 
low'd hither. 
Becket. Perhaps it may import her 
all as much 
Not to be known. 

Fitzurse. And what care I for that ? 
Come, come, my lord archbishop; I 

saw that door 
Close even now upon the woman. 
Becket. Well ? 

Fitzurse {^making for the door). Nay, 
let me pass, my lord, for I must 
know. 
Becket. Back, man! 
Fitzurse. Then tell me who and 

what she is. 
Becket. Art thou so sure thou fol- 
lowedst anything ? 
Go home, and sleep thy wine off, for 
thine eyes 120 

Glare stupid- wild with wine. 
Fitzurse {making to the door). I must 
and will. 
I care not for thy new archbishopric. 
Becket. Back, man, I tell thee ! What! 
Shall I forget my new archbishopric 
And smite thee with my crozier on 

the skull ? 
'Fore God, I am a mightier man than 
thou. 
Fitzurse. It well befits thy new 
archbishopric 
To take the vagabond woman of the 

street 
Into thine arms ! 

Becket. O drunken ribaldry ! 

Out, beast ! out, bear ! 

Fitzurse. I shall remember this. 

Becket. Do, and begone ! 

I Exit Fitzurse. 

[Going to the door, sees De Tracy. 

Tracy, what dost thou lure ? 



824 



BECKET 



ACT I 



Be Tracy. My lord, I follow' d Re- 
ginald Fitzurse. 132 
Becket. Follow him out ! 
Be Tracy. I shall remember this 
Discourtesy. [Exit. 
Becket. Do. These be those baron- 
brutes 
That havock'd all the land in Stephen's 

day. 
Rosamund de Clifford ! 
Re-enter Rosamund and Herbert. 
Rosamund. Here am I. 
Becket. Why here ? 

We gave thee to the charge of John 

of Salisbury, 
To pass thee to thy secret bower to- 
morrow. 
Wast thou not told to keep thyself 
from sight ? 
Rosamund. Poor bird of passage! 
so I was ; but, father, 140 

They say that you are wise in winged 

things, 
And know the ways of Nature. Bar 

the bird 
From following the fled summer — a 

chink — he's out, 
Gone! And there stole into the city 

a breath 
Full of the meadows, and it minded me 
Of the sweet woods of Clifford, and 

the walks 
Where I could move at pleasure, and 

I thought 
8 Lo ! I must out or die.' 

Becket. Or out and die. 

And what hast thou to do with this 

Fitzurse ? 

Rosamund. Nothing. He sued my 

hand. I shook at him. 150 

He found me once alone. Nay — nay 

— I cannot 
Tell you. My father drove him and 

his friends, 
De Tracy and De Brito, from our 

castle. 
I was but fourteen and an April then. 
I heard him swear revenge. 

Becket. Why will you court it 

By self-exposure ? flutter out at night ? 

Make it so hard to save a moth from 

the fire ? 

Rosamund. I have saved many of 

'em. You catch 'em, so, 

Softly, and fling them out to the free 



They burn themselves within-door. 

Becket. Our good John 

Must speed you to your bower at once. 
The child 161 

Is there already. ! 

Rosamund. Yes — the child — the 
child — 
O, rare, a whole long day of open field ! 
Becket. Ay, but you go disguised. 
Rosamund. O, rare again ! 

We'll baffle them, I warrant. What 

shall it be ? 
I '11 go as a nun. 
Becket. No. 

Rosamund. What, not good enough 
Even to play at nun? 

Becket. Dan John with a nun, 

That Map and these new railers at the 

Church 
May plaister his clean name with 

scurrilous rhymes ! 
No ! 170 

Go like a monk, cowling and clouding 

up 
That fatal star, thy beauty, from the 

squint 
Of lust and glare of malice. Good- 
night ! Good-night ! 
Rosamund. Father, I am so tender 
to all hardness ! 
Nay. father, first thy blessing. 
Becket. Wedded ? 

Rosamund. Father ! 

Becket. Well, well ! I ask no more. 

Heaven bless thee ! hence ! 
Rosamund. O holy father, when 
thou seest him next, 
Commend me to thy friend. 
Becket. What friend ? 

Rosamund. The King. 

Becket. Herbert, take out a score of 
armed men 
To guard this bird of passage to her 
cage ; 180 

And watch Fitzurse, and if he follow 

thee, 
Make him thy prisoner. I am Chan- 
cellor }'et. 
[Exeunt Herbert and Rosamund. 
Poor soul ! poor soul ! 
My friend, the King ! — O thou Great 

Seal of England, 
Given me by my dear friend, the King 

of England — 
We long have wrought together, thou 
and I — 



SCENE II 



BECKET 



825 



Now must I send thee as a common 
friend 

To tell the King, my friend, I am 
against him. 

We are friends no more ; he will say 
that, not I. 

The worldly bond between us is dis- 
solved, 190 

Not yet the love. Can I be under 
him 

As Chancellor ? as Archbishop over 
him? 

Go therefore like a friend slighted by 
one 

That hath climb'd up to nobler com- 
pany. 

Not slighted — all but moan'd for. 
Thou must go. 

I have not dishonor'd thee — I trust I 
have not — 

Not mangled justice. May the hand 
that next 

Inherits thee be but as true to thee 

As mine hath been ! O, my dear friend, 
the King ! 

brother ! — I may come to martyr- 

dom. 200 

1 am martyr in myself already. Her- 

bert ! 
Herbert {re-entering). My lord, the 
town is quiet, and the moon 

Divides the whole long street with 
light and shade. 

No footfall — no Fitzurse. We have 
seen her home. 
Becket. The hog hath tumbled him- 
self into some corner, 

Some ditch, to snore away his drunk- 
enness 

Into the sober headache, — Nature's 
moral 

Against excess. Let the Great Seal 
be sent 

Back to the King to-morrow. 

Herbert. Must that be ? 

The King may rend the bearer limb 
from limb. 210 

Think on it again. 
Becket. Against the moral excess 

No physical ache, but failure it may be 

Of all we aim'd at. John of Salis- 
bury 

Hath often laid a cold hand on my 
heats, . 

And Herbert hath rebuked me even 
now. 



I will be wise and wary, not the sol- 
dier 

As Foliot swears it. — John, and out 
of breath ! 
Enter John of Salisbury. 
John of Salisbury. Thomas, thou 
wast not happy taking charge 

Of this wild Rosamund to please the 
King, 

Nor am I happy having charge of 
her — 220 

The included Danae" has escaped 
again 

Her tower and her Acrisius — where 
to seek ? 

I have been about the city. 

Becket. Thou w T ilt find her 

Back in her lodging. Go with her — 
at once — 

To-night — my men will guard you to 
the gates. 

Be sweet to her, she has many ene- 
mies. 

Send the Great Seal by daybreak. 
Both, good-night ! 



Scene II 

Street in Northampton leading 
to the Castle 

Eleanor's Retainers and Becket's 
Retainers fighting. Enter Elea- 
nor and Becket from opposite 
streets. 

Eleanor. Peace, fools ! 

Becket. • Peace, friends ! what idle 

brawl is this ? 
Retainer of Becket. They said — her 
Grace's people — thou wast 
found — 
Liars ! I shame to quote 'em — caught, 

my lord, 
With a wanton in thy lodging — Hell 
requite 'em ! 
Retainer of Eleanor. My liege, the 
Lord Fitzurse reported this 
In passing to the Castle even now. 
Retainer of Becket. xVnd then they 
mock'd us and we fell upon 
'em, 
For we would live and die for thee, 

my lord, 
However kings and queens may frown 
on thee. 



826 



BECKET 



ACT I 



Becket to his Retainers. Go, go — 

no more of this ! 
Eleanor to her Retainers. Away ! 

{Exeunt Retainers. ) Fitzurse — 
Becket. Nay, let him be. 
Eleanor. No, no, my lord arch- 

bishop, ii 

'T is known you are midwinter to all 

women, 
But often in your chancellorship you 

served 
The follies of the King. 
Becket. No, not these follies ! 

Eleanor. My lord, Fitzurse beheld 

her in your lodging. 
Becket. Whom? 
Eleanor. Well — you know — the 

minion, Rosamund. 
Becket. He had good eyes ! 
Eleanor. Then hidden in the street 
He watch'd her pass with John of 

Salisbury, 
And heard her cry, 'Where is this 
bower of mine ? ' 
Becket. Good ears too ! 
Eleanor. You are going to the 

Castle, 20 

Will you subscribe the customs ? 

Becket. I leave that, 

Knowing how much you reverence 

Holy Church, 
My liege, to your conjecture. 

Eleanor. I and mine — 

And many a baron holds along with 

me — 
Are not so much at feud wuth Holy 

Church 
But we might take your side against 

the customs — 
So that you grant me one slight favor. 
Becket. What ? 

Eleanor. A sight of that same 
chart which Henry gave you 
With the red line — ' her bower/ 
Becket. And to what end ? 

Eleanor. That Church must scorn 
herself whose fearful priest 30 
Sits winking at the license of a king, 
Altho' we grant when kings are dan- 
gerous 
The Church must play into the hands 

of kings ; 
Look ! I would move this wanton from 

his sight 
And take the Church's danger on my- 
self. 



Becket. For which she should be 

duly grateful. 
Eleanor. True ! 

Tho' she that binds the bond, herself 

should see 
That kings are faithful to their mar- 
riage vow. 
Becket. Ay, madam, and queens 

also. 
Eleanor. And queens also ! 39 

What is your drift ? 

Becket. My drift is to the Castle, 

Where I shall meet the barons and 

my King. [Exit. 

De Broc, De Tracy, De Brito, 

De Morville {passing). 
Eleanor. To the Castle ? 
De Broc. Ay ! 

Eleanor. Stir up the King, the lords ! 
Set all on fire against him ! 
De Brito. Ay, good madam ! 

[Exeunt. 
Eleanor. Fool! I will make thee 
hateful to thy King. 
Churl ! I will have thee frighted into 

France, 
And I shall live to trample on thy 
grave. 

Scene III 

The Hall in Northampton Castle 

On one side of the stage the doors of an 
inner Council - chamber, half- open. 
At the bottom, the great doors of 
the Hall. Roger Archbishop of 
York, Foliot Bishop of London, 
Hilary of Chichester, Bishop 
of Hereford, Richard de Hast- 
ings {Grand Prior of Templars), 
Philip de Eleemosyna {the Pope's 
Almoner), and others. De Broc, 
Fitzurse, De Brito, De Mor- 
ville, De Tracy, and other Bar- 
ons assembled — a table before them. 
John of Oxford, President of the 
Council. 

Enter Becket and Herbert of Bo- 
sham. 
Becket. Where is the King ? 
Roger of York. Gone hawking on 
the Nene, 
His heart so gall'd with thine ingrati- 
tude, 



SCENE III 



BECKET 



827 



He will not see thy face till thou hast 

sign'd 
These ancient laws and customs of 

the realm. 
Thy sending back the Great Seal 

madden'd him ; 
He all but pluck'd the bearer's eyes 

away. 
Take heed lest he destroy thee utterly. 
Becket. Then shalt thou step into 

my place and sign. 
Roger of York. Didst thou not pro- 
mise Henry to obey 
These ancient laws and customs of 

the realm ? 10 

Becket. Saving the honor of my or- 
der — ay. 
Customs, traditions, — clouds that 

come and go ; 
The customs of the Church are Peter's 

rock. 
Roger of York. Saving thine order ! 

But King Henry sware 
That, saving his King's kingship, he 

would grant thee 
The crown itself. Saving thine order, 

Thomas, 
Is black and white at once, and comes 

to nought. 
O bolster' d up with stubbornness and 

pride, 
Wilt thou destroy the Church in fight- 
ing for it, 
And bring us all to shame ? 

Becket. Koger of York, 

When I and thou were youths in 

Theobald's house, 21 

Twice did thy malice and thy cal- 
umnies 
Exile me from the face of Theobald. 
Now I am Canterbury, and thou art 

York. 
Roger of York. And is not York the 

peer of Canterbury ? 
Did not Great Gregory bid Saint 

Austin here 
Found two archbishoprics, London 

and York ? 
Becket. What came of that? The 

first archbishop fled, 
And York lay barren for a hundred 

years. 
Why, by this rule, Foliot may claim 

the pall 30 

For London too. 
Foliot. And with good reason too, 



For London had a temple and a priest 

When Canterbury hardly bore a name. 

Becket. The pagan temple of a 

pagan Rome ! 
The heathen priesthood of a heathen 

creed ! 
Thou goest beyond thyself in petu- 

lancy ! 
Who made thee London ? Who, but 

Canterbury ? 
John of Oxford. Peace, peace, my 

lords ! these customs are no 

longer 
As Canterbury calls them, wandering 

clouds, 
But by the King's command are writ- 
ten down, 40 
And by the King's command I, John 

of Oxford, 
The President of this Council, read 

them. 
Becket. Read ! 

John of Oxford {reads). * All causes of 
advowsons and presentations, whether 
between laymen or clerics, shall be 
tried in the King's court/ 

Becket. But that I cannot sign ; for 

that would drag 
The cleric before the civil judgment- 
seat, 
And on a matter wholly spiritual. 49 
John of Oxford. 'If any cleric be 
accused of felony, the Church shall 
not protect him ; but he shall answer 
to the summons of the King's court to 
be tried therein/ 

Becket. And that I cannot sign. 
Is not the Church the visible Lord on 

earth ? 
Shall hands that do create the Lord 

be bound 
Behind the back like laymen-criminals? 
The Lord be judged again by Pilate ? 

No! 59 

John of Oxford. ' When a bishopric 

falls vacant, the King, till another be 

appointed, shall receive the revenues 

thereof. ' 

Becket. And that I cannot sign. Is 

the King's treasury 
A fit place for the moneys of the 

Church, 
That be the patrimony of the poor ? 

John of Oxford. ' And when the va- 
cancy is to be filled up, the King shall 
summon the chapter of that church to 



828 



BECKET 



ACT I 



court, and the election shall be made 
in the Chapel Royal, with the consent 
of our lord the King, and by the ad- 
vice of his Government.' 73 
Becket. And that I cannot sign ; for 
that would make 
Our island - Church a schism from 

Christendom, 
And weight down all free choice be- 
neath the throne. 
Foliot. And was thine own election 
so canonical, 
Good father ? 
Becket. If it were not, Gilbert 

Foliot, 
I mean to cross the sea to France, and 

lay 
My crozfer in the Holy Father's hands, 
And bid him re-create me, Gilbert 
Foliot. 81 

Foliot. Nay ; by another of these 
customs thou 
Wilt not be suffer' d so to cross the seas 
Without the license of our lord the 
King. 
Becket. That,- too, I cannot sign. 
De Broc, De Brito, De Tracy, 
Fitzurse, De Morville, start up 
— a clash of swords. 

Sign and obey ! 
Becket. My lords, is this a combat 
or a council ? 
Are ye my masters, or my lord the 

King? 
Ye make this clashing for no love o' 

the customs 
Or constitutions, or whate'er ye call 

them, 
But that there be among you those 
that hold 90 

Lands reft from Canterbury. 

De Broc. And mean to keep them, 
In spite of thee ! 
Lords (shouting). Sign, and obey 

the crown ! 
Becket. The crown ? Shall I do less 
for Canterbury 
Than Henry for the crown ? King 

Stephen gave 
Many of the crown lands to those that 

helpt him ; 
So did Matilda, the King's mother. 

Mark, 
When Henry came into his own again, 
Then he took back not only Stephen's 
gifts, 



But his own mother's, lest the crown 
should be 

Shorn of ancestral splendor. This did 
Henry. 100 

Shall I do less for mine own Canter- 
bury ? 

And thou, De Broc, that holdest Salt- 
wood Castle — 
De Broc. And mean to hold it, or — 
Becket. To have my life. 

De Broc. The King is quick to an- 
ger ; if thou anger him, 

We wait but the King's word to strike 
thee dead. 
Becket. Strike, and I die the death 
of martyrdom ; 

Strike, and ye set these customs by 
my death 

Ringing their own death-knell thro' 
all the realm. 
Herbert. And I can tell you, lords, 
ye are all as like 

To lodge a fear in Thomas Becket's 
heart no 

As find a hare's form in a lion's cave. 
John of Oxford. Ay, sheathe your 
swords, ye will displease the 
King. 
De Broc. Why, down then thou ! 
but an he come to Saltwood, 

By God's death, thou shalt stick him 
like a calf ! [Sheathing his sword. 
Hilary. O my good lord, I do en- 
treat thee — sign. 

Save the King's honor here before his 
barons. 

He hath sworn that thou shouldst sign, 
and now but shuns 

The semblance of defeat ; I have heard 
him say 

He means no more ; so if thou sign, 
my lord, 

That were but as the shadow of an 

assent. 120 

Becket. 'T would seem too like the 

substance, if I sign'd. 
Philip de Eleemosyna. My lord, thine 
ear ! I have the ear of the Pope. 

As thou hast honor for the Pope our 
master, 

Have pity on him, sorely prest upon 

By the fierce Emperor and his Anti- 
pope. 

Thou knowest he was forced to fly to 
France ; 

He pray'd me to pray thee to pacify 



SCENE III 



BECKET 



829 



Thy King ; for if thou go against thy 

King, 
Then must he likewise go against thy 

King, 
And then thy King might join the 

Antipope, 130 

And that would shake the Papacy as 

it stands. 
Besides, thy King swore to our cardi- 
nals 
He meant no harm nor damage to the 

Church. 
Smoothe thou his pride — thy signing 

is but form ; 
Nay, and should harm come of it, it is 

the Pope 
Will be to blame — not thou. Over 

and over 
He told me thou shouldst pacify the 

King, 
Lest there be battle between Heaven 

and Earth, 
And Earth should get the better — for 

the time. 
Cannot the Pope absolve thee if thou 

sign ? 140 

Becket. Have I the orders of the 

Holy Father ? 
Philip de Eleemosyna. Orders, my 

lord — why, no ; for what am I ? 
The secret whisper of the Holy Father. 
Thou, that hast been a statesman, 

couldst thou always 
Blurt thy free mind to the air ? 

Becket. If Rome be feeble, then 

should I be firm. 
Philip. Take it not that way — balk 

not the Pope's will. 
When he hath shaken off the Empe- 
ror, 
He heads the Church against the King 

with thee. 
Richard de Hastings (kneeling). 

Becket, I am the oldest of the 

Templars ; 150 

I knew thy father; he would be mine 

age 
Had he lived now ; think of me as thy 

father ! 
Behold thy father kneeling to thee, 

Becket. 
Submit ; I promise thee on my salva- 
tion 
That thou wilt hear no more o' the 

customs. 
Becket. What ! 



Hath Henry told thee ? hast thou talk'd 
with him ? 
Another Templar (kneeling). Father, 
I am the youngest of the Tem- 
plars, 
Look on me as I were thy bodily son, 
For, like a son, I lift my hands to 
thee. 
Philip. Wilt thou hold out forever, 
Thomas Becket ? 160 

Dost thou not hear ? 

Becket (signs). Why — there then — 
there — I sign, 
And swear to obey the customs. 

Foliot. Is it thy will, 

My lord archbishop, that we too should 
sign ? 
Becket. O, ay, by that canonical 
obedience 
Thou still hast owed thy father, Gil- 
bert Foliot. 
Foliot. Loyally and with good faith, 

my lord archbishop ? 
Becket. O, ay, with all that loyalty 
and good faith 
Thou still hast shown thy primate, 
Gilbert Foliot. 
[Becket draws apart trith Herbert. 
Herbert, Herbert, have I betray 'd the 

Church ? 
I '11 have the paper back — blot out 
my name. 170 

Herbert. Too late, my lord : you see 

they are signing there. 
Becket. False to myself — it is the 
will of God 
To break me, prove me nothing of 

myself! 
This almoner hath tasted Henry's gold. 
The cardinals have finger'd Henry's 

gold. 
And Rome is venal even to rottenness. 
I see it, I see it. 

I am no soldier, as he said — at least 
No leader. Herbert, till I hear from 

the Pope 
I will suspend myself from all my 
functions. 180 

If fast and prayer, the lacerating 
scourge — 
Foliot (from the table). My lord arch- 
bishop, thou hast yet to seal. 
Becket. First, Foliot, let me sec what 
I have sign'd. | Ooee to tin table. 
What, this ! and this I — what ! new 
and old together ! 



8 3 o 



BECKET 



ACT I 



Seal? If a seraph shouted from the 

sun, 
And bade me seal against the rights of 

the Church, 
I would anathematize him. I will not 

seal. [Exit with Herbert. 

Enter King Henry. 
Henry. Where 's Thomas ? hath he 

signed ? show me the papers ! 
Sign'd and not seal'd ! How 's that ? 
John of Oxford. He would not 

seal. 
And when he sign'd, his face was 

stormy -red — 190 

Shame, wrath, I know not what. He 

sat down there 
And dropt it in his hands, and then a 

paleness, 
Like the wan twilight after sunset, 

crept 
Up even to the tonsure, and he groan'd, 
'False to myself ! It is the will of God ! ' 
Henry. God's will be what it will, 

the man shall seal, 
Or I will seal his doom. My burgher's 

son — , 
Nay, if I cannot break him as the pre- 
late, 
I '11 crush him as the subject. Send for 

him back. [Sits on his throne. 
Barons and bishops of our realm of 

England, 200 

After the nineteen winters of King 

Stephen — 
A reign which was no reign, when 

none could sit 
By his own hearth in peace ; when 

murder common 
As nature's death, like Egypt's plague, 

had fill'd 
All things with blood ; when every 

doorway blush' d, 
Dash'd red with that unhallow'd pass- 
over ; 
When every baron ground his blade 

in blood ; 
The household dough was kneaded up 

with blood ; 
The mill-wheel turn'd in blood ; the 

wholesome plow 
Lay rusting in the furrow's yellow 

weeds, 210 

Till famine dwarft the race — I came, 

your King ! 
Nor dwelt alone, like a soft lord of the 

East, 



In mine own hall, and sucking thro' 
fools' ears 

The flatteries of corruption — went 
abroad 

Thro' all my counties, spied my peo- 
ple's ways ; 

Yea, heard the churl against the baron 
— yea, 

And did him 3 ustice ; sat in mine own 
courts 

Judging my judges, that had found a 
King 

Who ranged confusions, made the twi- 
light day, 

And struck a shape from out the 
vague, and law 220 

From madness. And the event — our 
fallows till'd, 

Much corn, repeopled towns, a realm 
again. 

So far my course, albeit not glassy- 
smooth, 

Had prosper' d in the main, but sud- 
denly 

Jarr'd on this rock. A cleric violated 

The daughter of his host, and mur- 
der'd him. 

Bishops — York, London, Chichester, 
Westminster — 

Ye haled this tonsured devil into your 
courts ; 

But since your canon will not let you 
take 

Life for a life, ye but degraded him 

Where I had hang'd him. What doth 
hard murder care 231 

For degradation ? and that made me 
muse, 

Being bounden by my coronation oath 

To do men justice. Look to it, your 
own selves ! 

Say that a cleric murder' d an arch- 
bishop, 

What could ye do ? Degrade, imprison 
him — 

Not death for death. 

John of Oxford. But I, my liege, 
could swear, 

To death for death. 
Henry. And, looking thro' my reign, 

I found a hundred ghastl y murders done 

By men, the scum and offal of the 
Church ; 140 

Then, glancing thro' the story of this 
realm, 

I came on certain wholesome usages, 



SCENE III 



BECKET 



831 



Lost in desuetude, of my grandsire's 
day.. 

Good royal customs — had them writ- 
ten fair 

For John of Oxford here to read to you. 
John of Oxford. And I can easily 
swear to these as being 

The King's will and God's will and 
justice; yet 



Henry. And Becket had my bosom 

on all this ; 
If ever man by bonds of gratefulness— 
I raised him from the puddle of the 

gutter, 
I made him porcelain from the clay of 

the city — 
Thought that I knew him, err'd thro' 

love of him, 




Sir Henry Irving as Becket 



I could but read a part to-day, be- 
cause — 
Fitzurse. Because my lord of Can- 
terbury — 
Be Tracy. Ay, 

This lord of Canterbury — 

Be Brito. As is his wont 

Too much of late whene'er your royal 
rights 251 

Are mooted in our councils — 

Fitzurse. — made an uproar. 



Hoped, were he chosen archbishop. 

Church and Crown, 
Two sisters gliding in an equal 

dance, 
Two rivers gently flowing side by 

side — 
But no ! »6i 

The bird that moults sings the same 

song again. 
The snake that sloughs comes out a 

snake again. 



8 3 2 



BECKET 



ACT I 



Snake — ay, but he that lookt a fang- 
less one 

Issues a venomous adder. 

For he, when having dofft the Chan- 
cellor's robe 

Flung the Great Seal of England in 
my face — 

Claim'd some of our crown lands for 
Canterbury — . 

My comrade, boon companion, my co- 
reveller, 

The master of his master, the King's 
king. — 270 

God's eyes ! I had meant to make 
him all but king. 

Chancellor- Archbishop, he might well 
have sway'd 

All England under Henry, the young 
King, 

When I was hence. What did the 
traitor say ? 

False to himself, but ten-fold false to 
me! 

The will of God — why, then it is my 
will — 

Is he coming ? 
Messenger {entering). With a crowd 
of worshippers, 

And holds his cross before him thro' 
the crowd, 

As one that puts himself in sanctuary. 

Henry. His cross ! 

Roger of York. His cross ! I '11 front 

him, cross to cross. 280 

[Exit Roger of York. 

Henry. His cross ! it is the traitor 

that imputes 

Treachery to his King ! 

It is not safe for me to look upon him. 

Away — with me ! 

[Goes in with his Barons to the 
Council Chamber, the door of 
which is left open. 

Enter Becket, holding his cross of sil- 
ver before him. The Bishops come 
round him. 

Hereford. The King will not abide 
thee with thy cross. 

Permit me, my good lord, to bear it 
for thee, 

Being thy chaplain. 

Becket. No ; it must protect me. 
Herbert. As once he bore the stand- 
ard of the Angles, 

So now he bears the standard of the 
angels. 



Foliot. I am the dean of the prov- 
ince ; let me bear it. 290 

Make not thy King a traitorous mur- 
derer. 
Becket. Did not your barons draw 
their swords against me ? 

Enter Roger of York, with his cross, 
advancing to Becket. 
Becket. Wherefore dost thou pre- 
sume to bear thy cross, 

Against the solemn ordinance from 
Rome, 

Out of thy province ? 
Roger of York. Why dost thou pre- 
sume, 

Arm'd with thy cross, to come before 
the King ? 

If Canterbury bring his cross to court, 

Let York bear his to mate with Can- 
terbury. 
Foliot (seizing hold of Becket' s cross). 
Nay, nay, my lord, thou must 
not brave the King. 

Nay, let me have it. I will have it ! 
Becket. Away ! 

[Flinging him off. 
Foliot. He fasts, they say, this mi- 
tred Hercules ! 301 

He fast ! is that an arm of fast ? My 
lord, 

Hadst thou not sign'd, I had gone 
along with thee ; 

But thou the shepherd hast betray'd 
the sheep, 

And thou art perjured, and thou wilt 
not seal. 

As Chancellor thou wast against the 
Church, 

Now as archbishop goest against the 
King; 

For, like a fool, thou know'st no mid- 
dle way. 

Ay, ay ! but art thou stronger than 
the King ? 
Becket. Strong — not in mine own 
self, but Heaven; true 310 

To either function, holding it ; and 
thou 

Fast, scourge thyself, and mortify thy 
flesh, 

Not spirit — thou remainest Gilbert 
Foliot, 

A worldly follower of the worldly 
strong. 

I, bearing this great ensign, make it 
clear 



SCENE III 



BECKET 



833 



Under what prince I fight. 

Foliot. My lord of York, 

Let us go in to the Council, where our 
bishops 

And our great lords will sit in judg- 
ment on him. 
Becket. Sons sit in judgment on 
their father ! — then 

The spire of Holy Church may prick 
the graves — 320 

Her crypt among the stars. Sign ? 
seal ? I promised 

The King to obey these customs, not 
yet written, 

Saving mine order ; true, too, that 
when written 

I sign'd them — being a fool, as Foliot 
caird me. 

I hold not by my signing. Get ye 
hence, 

Tell what I say to the King. 

[Exeunt Hereford, Foliot, and 

other Bishops. 

Roger of York. The Church will 

hate thee. [Exit. 

Becket. Serve my best friend and 

make him my worst foe ; 

Fight for the Church, and set the 
Church against me ! 
Herbert. To be honest is to set all 
knaves against thee. 

Ah, Thomas, excommunicate them 

all ! 330 

Hereford {re-entering). I cannot 

brook the turmoil thou hast 

raised. 

I would, my lord Thomas of Canter- 
bury, 

Thou wert plain Thomas and not Can- 
terbury, 

Or that thou wouldst deliver Canter- 
bury 

To our King's hands again, and be at 
peace. 
Hilary (re-entering). For hath not 
thine ambition set the Church 

This day between the hammer and 
the anvil — • 

Fealty to the King, obedience to thy- 
self? 
Herbert. What say the bishops ? 
Hilary. Some have pleaded for him, 

But the King rages — most are with 
the King ; 340 

And some are reeds, that one time 
sway to the current, 



And to the wind another. But we 

hold 
Thou art forsworn; and no forsworn 

archbishop 
Shall helm the Church. We therefore 

place ourselves 
Under the shield and safeguard of the 

Pope, 
And cite thee to appear before the 

Pope, 
And answer thine accusers. Art 
thou deaf ? 
Becket. I hear you. [Clash of arms. 
Hilary. Dost thou hear those others? 
Becket. Ay ! 

Roger of York (re-entering). The 
King's ' God's eyes ! ' come now 
so thick and fast 
We fear that he may reave thee of 
thine own. 350 

Come on, come on ! it is not fit for us 
To see the proud archbishop mutilated. 
Say that he blind thee and tear out 
thy tongue. 
Becket. So be it. He begins at top 
with me ; 
They crucified Saint Peter downward. 
Roger of York. Nay, 

But for their sake who stagger betwixt 

thine 
Appeal and Henry's anger, yield. 
Becket. Hence, Satan ! 

[Exit Roger of York. 
Fitzurse (re-entering). My lord, the 
King demands three hundred 
marks, 
Due from his castles of Berkhamstead 

and Eye 
When thou thereof wast warden. 

Becket. Tell the King 

I spent thrice that in fortifying his 

castles. 361 

Be Tracy (^re-entering). My lord, the 

King demands seven hundred 

marks, 

Lent at the siege of Toulouse by the 

King. 

Becket. I led seven hundred knights 

and fought his wars. 
Be Brito (re-entering). My lord, 
the King demands five hundred 
marks, 
Advanced thee at his instance by the 

Jews, 
For which the King was bound secur- 
ity. 



834 



BECKET 



ACT I 



Becket. I thought it was a gift ; I 
thought it was a gift. 
Enter Lord Leicester {followed by 
Barons and Bishops). 
Leicester. My lord, I come unwill- 
ingly. The King 
Demands a strict account of all those 
revenues 370 

From all the vacant sees and abbacies, 
Which came into thy hands when 
Chancellor. 
Becket. How much might that 

amount to, my lord Leicester ? 
Leicester. Some thirty — forty 

thousand silver marks. 
Becket. Are these your customs? 
O my good lord Leicester, 
The King and I were brothers. All I 

had 
I lavish'd for the glory of the King ; 
I shone from him, for him, his glory, 

his 
Reflection. Now the glory of the 

Church 
Hath swallow'd up the glory of the 
King ; 380 

I am his no more, but hers. Grant 

me one day 
To ponder these demands. 

Leicester. Hear first thy sentence ! 
The King and all his lords — 
Becket. Son, first hear me ! 

Leicester. Nay, nay, canst thou, 
that holdest thine estates 
In fee and barony of the King, de- 
cline 
The judgment of the King ? 

Becket. The King ! I hold 

Nothing in fee and barony of the 

King. 
Whatever the Church owns — she 

holds it in 
Free and perpetual alms, unsubject to 
One earthly sceptre. 
Leicester. Nay, but hear thy judg- 
ment. 390 
The King and all his barons — 

Becket. Judgment! Barons! 

Who but the bridegroom dares to j udge 

the bride, 
Or he the bridegroom may appoint ? 

Not he 
That is not of the house, but from the 

street 
Stain'd with the mire thereof. 

I had been so true 



To Henry and mine office that the 
King 

Would throne me in the great arch- 
bishopric ; 

And I, that knew mine own infirm- 
ity, 

For the King's pleasure rather than 
God's cause 

Took it upon me — err'd thro' love of 
him. 400 

Now therefore God from me withdrawn 
Himself, 

And the King too. 

What ! forty thousand marks ! 

Why, thou, the King, the Pope, the 
Saints, the world, 

Know that when made archbishop I 
was freed, 

Before the Prince and chief justi- 
ciary, 

From every bond and debt and obli- 
gation 

Incurr'd as Chancellor. 

Hear me, son. As gold 

Outvalues dross, light darkness, Abel 
Cain, 

The soul the body, and the Church 
the Throne, 

I charge thee, upon pain of mine- 
anathema, 410 

That thou obey, not me, but God in 
me, 

Rather than Henry. I refuse to stand 

By the King's censure, make my cry 
to the Pope, 

By whom I will be judged ; refer my- 
self, 

The King, these customs, all the 
Church, to him, 

And under his authority — I depart. 

\ Going. 
[Leicester looks at him doubtingly. 

Am I a prisoner ? 

Leicester. By Saint Lazarus, no ! 

I am confounded by thee. Go, in 
peace. 
De Broc. In peace now — but after. 
Take that for earnest. 
[Flings a bone at Mm from the 
rushes. 
De Brito, Fitzurse, De Tracy, and 

others (flinging wisps of rushes). Ay, 

go in peace, caitiff, caitiff ! And that 

too, perjured prelate — and that, turn- 
coat shaveling ! There, there, there I 

traitor, traitor, traitor ! 



SCENE IV 



BECKET 



835 



Becket. Mannerless wolves ! 

[Turning and facing them. 

Herbert. Enough, my lord, enough ! 

Becket. Barons of England and of 

Normandy, 

When what ye shake at doth but seem 

to fly, 
True test of coward, ye follow with a 
yell. 430 

But I that threw the mightiest knight 

of France, 
Sir Engelram de Trie, — 
Herbert. Enough, my lord. 

Becket. More than enough. I play 
the fool again. 

Enter Herald. 
Herald. The King commands you, 
upon pain of death, 
That none should wrong or injure 
your archbishop. 
Foliot. Deal gently with the young 
man Absalom. 
[Great doors of the Hall at the back 
open, and discover a crowd. 
They shout : 
Blessed is he that cometh in the name 
of the Lord ! 



Scene IV 

Refectory of the Monastery at 
Northampton 

A Banquet on the Tables. 

Enter Becket. Becket's Retain- 
ers. 

First Retainer. Do thou speak first. 

Second Retainer. Nay, thou ! Nay, 
thou ! Hast not thou drawn the short 
straw? 

First Retainer. My lord archbishop, 
wilt thou permit us — 

Becket. To speak without stammer- 
ing and like a free man ? Ay. 

First Retainer. My lord, permit us 
then to leave thy service. 10 

Becket. When ? 

First Retainer. Now. 

Becket. To-night ? 

First Retainer. To-night, my lord. 

Becket. And why ? 

First Retainer. My lord, we leave 
thee not without tears. 



Becket. Tears ? Why not stay with 
me then ? lg 

First Retainer. My lord, we cannot 
yield thee an answer altogether to thy 
satisfaction. 

Becket. I warrant you, or your own 
either. Shall I find you one? The 
King hath frowned upon me. 

First Retainer. That is not alto- 
gether our answer, my lord. 

Becket. No; yet all but all. Go, go! 
Ye have eaten of my dish and drunken 
of my cup for a dozen years. 30 

First Retainer. And so we have. 
We mean thee no wrong. Wilt thou 
not say, ' God bless you,' ere we go ? 

Becket. God bless you all ! God 
redden your pale blood ! But mine 
is human-red ; and when ye shall 
hear it is poured out upon earth, and 
see it mounting to heaven, my ' God 
bless you,' that seems sweet to you 
now, will blast and blind you like a 
curse. 4 i 

First Retainer. We hope not, my 
lord. Our humblest thanks for your 
blessing. Farewell ! 

[Exeunt Retainers. 

Becket. Farewell, friends ! fare- 
well, swallows ! I wrong the bird ; 
she leaves only the nest she built, 
they leave the builder. Why ? Am 
I to be murdered to-night ? 

[Knocking at the door. 

Attendant. Here is a missive left 
at the gate by one from the castle. 51 

Becket. Cornwall's hand or Leices- 
ter's; they write marvellously alike. 

[Reading. 

* Fly at once to France, to King 
Louis of France ; there be those about 
our King who would have thy blood.' 

Was not my lord of Leicester bidden 
to our supper ? 

Attendant. Ay, my lord, and di- 
vers other earls and barons. But the 
hour is past, and our brother, Mas- 
ter Cook, he makes moan that all be 
a-getting cold. 63 

Becket. And I make my moan along 
with him. Cold after warm, winter 
after summer, and the golden leaves, 
these earls and barons, that clung to 
me, frosted off me by the first cold 
frown of the King. 'Cold, but look 



8 3 6 



BECKET 



ACT I 



how the table steams, like a heathen 
altar ; nay, like the altar at Jerusalem. 
Shall God's good gifts be wasted? 
None of them here ! ■ Call in the poor 
from the streets, and let them feast. 

Herbert. That is the parable of our 
blessed Lord. 

Becket. And why should not the 
parable of our blessed Lord be acted 
again ? Call in the poor ! The Church 
is ever at variance with the kings, 
and ever at one with the poor. I 
marked a group of lazars in the mar- 
ketplace — half -rag, half -sore — beg- 
gars, poor rogues (Heaven bless 'em ! ) 
who never saw nor dreamed of such a 
banquet. I will amaze them. Call 
them in, I say. They shall hencefor- 
ward be my earls and barons — our 
lords and masters in Christ Jesus. 89 
[Exit Herbert. 

If the King hold his purpose, I am 
myself a beggar. Forty thousand 
marks ! forty thousand devils — and 
these craven bishops ! 

A Poor Man (entering) with his dog. 
My lord archbishop, may I come in 
with my poor friend, my dog ? The 
King's verdurer caught him a-hunting 
in the forest, and cut off his paws. 
The dog followed his calling, my lord. 
I ha' carried him ever so many miles 
in my arms, and he licks my face and 
moans and cries out against the 
King. 103 

Becket. Better thy dog than thee. 
The King's courts would use thee 
worse than thy dog — they are too 
bloody. Were the Church king, it 
would be otherwise. Poor beast ! poor 
beast ! set him down. I will bind up 
his wounds with my napkin. Give 
him a bone, give him a bone ! Who 
misuses a dog would misuse a child — 
they cannot speak for themselves. 
Past help ! his paws are past help. 
God help him ! u 5 

Enter the Beggars {and seat themselves 
at the Tables). Becket and Her- 
bert wait upon them. 

First Beggar. Swine, sheep, ox — 
here 's a French supper ! When thieves 
fall out, honest men — 

Second Beggar. Is the archbishop a 
thief who gives thee thy supper ? 120 



First Beggar. Well, then, how does 
it go? When honest men fall out, 
thieves — no, it can't be that. 

Second Beggar. Who stole the 
widow's one sitting hen o' Sunday, 
when she was at mass ? 

First , Beggar. Come, come ! thou 
hadst thy share on her. Sitting hen ! 
Our Lord Becket 's our great sitting- 
hen cock, and we should n't Ija' been 
sitting here if the barons and bishops 
had n't been a-sitting on the arch- 
bishop. 133 

Becket. Ay, the princes sat in judg- 
ment against me, and the Lord hath 
prepared your table — Sederunt prin- 
cipes, ederunt pauperes. 

A Voice. Becket, beware of the 

knife ! 

Becket. Who spoke ? 140 

Third Beggar. Nobody, my lord. 
What 's that, my lord ? 

Becket. Venison. 

Third Beggar. Venison ? 

Becket. Buck — deer, as you call it. 

Third Beggar. King's meat ! By 
the Lord, won't we pray for your lord- 
ship! 

Becket. And, my children, your 
prayers will do more for me in the 
day* of peril that dawns darkly and 
drearily over the house of God — yea, 
and in the day of judgment also, than 
the swords of the craven sycophants 
would have done had they remained 
true to me whose bread they have 
partaken. I must leave you to your 
banquet. Feed, feast, and be merry. 
Herbert, for the sake of the Church 
itself, if not for my own, I must fly 
to France to-night. Come with me. 
[Exit with Herbert. 

Third Beggar. Here — all of you — 
my lord's health ! (they drink). Well 
— if that isn't goodly wine — 164 

Mrst Beggar. Then there is n't a 
goodly wench to serve him with it; 
they were fighting for her to-day in 
the street. 

Third Beggar. Peace ! 

First Beggar. 
The black sheep baaed to the miller's ewe- 
lamb, 170 
1 The miller 's away for to-night.' 
' Black sheep, ' quoth she, ' too black a sin 
for me.' 



SCENE IV 



BECKET 



837 



And what said the black sheep, my 
masters ? 

' We can make a black sin white.' 

Third Beggar. Peace! 

First Beggar. 

'Ewe-lamb, ewe-lamb, I am here by the 
dam.' 
But the miller came home that night, 
And so' dusted his back with the meal in 
his sack, 
That he made the black sheep white. 

Third Beggar. Be we not of the 
family ? be we not a-supping with the 
head of the family ? be we not in my 
lord's own refractory ? Out from 
among us ; thou art our black 
sheep. 185 

Enter the four Knights. 

Fitzurse. Sheep, said he ? And 
sheep without the shepherd, too. 
Where is my lord archbishop ? Thou 
the lustiest and lousiest of this Cain's 
brotherhood, answer. i 9 o 

Third Beggar. With Cain's answer, 
my lord. Am I his keeper? Thou 
shouldst call him Cain, not me. 

Fitzurse. So I do, for he would 
murder his brother the State. 

Third Beggar (rising and advan- 
cing). No, my lord ; but because the 
Lord hath set his mark upon him that 
no man should murder him. 

Fitzurse. Where is he? where is 
he ? 201 

Third Beggar. With Cain belike, in 
the land of Nod, or in the land of 
France for aught I know. 

Fitzurse. France ! Ha! De Mor- 
ville, Tracy, Brito — fled is he ? Cross 
swords, all of you! swear to follow 
him ! Remember the Queen ! 

[The four Knights cross their 
swords. 

Be Brito. They mock us ; he is 
here. 210 

[All the Beggars rise and advance 
upon them. 

Fitzurse. Come, you filthy knaves, 
let us pass. 

Third Beggar. Nay, my lord, let 
us pass. We be a-going home after 
our supper in all humbleness, my 
lord ; for the archbishop loves hum- 
bleness, my lord, and though we be 



fifty to four, we daren't fight you 
with our crutches, my lord. There 
now, if thou hast not laid hands upon 
me ! and my fellows know that I am 
all one scale like a fish. I pray God I 
haven't given thee my leprosy, my 
lord. 2 2 4 

[Fitzurse shrinks from him, and 
another presses upon De Brito. 

De Brito. Away, dog ! 

Fourth Beggar. And I was bit by a 
mad dog o' Friday, an' I be half dog 
already by this token, that tho' I can 
drink wine I cannot bide water, my 
lord ; and I want to bite, I want to 
bite, and they do say the very breath 
catches. 232 

De Brito. Insolent clown ! Shall I 
smite him with the edge of the sword ? 

De Morville. No, nor with the flat 
of it either. Smite the shepherd, and 
the sheep are scattered. Smite the 
sheep, and the shepherd will excom- 
municate thee. 

De Brito. Yet my fingers itch to 
beat him into nothing. 241 

Fifth Beggar. So do mine, my lord. 
I was born with it, and sulphur won't 
bring it out o' me. But for all that 
the archbishop washed my feet o' 
Tuesday. He likes it, my lord. 

Sixth Beggar. And see here, my 
lord, this rag fro' the gangrene i' my 
leg. It's humbling — it smells o' hu- 
man natur'. Wilt thou smell it, my 
lord ? for the archbishop likes the 
smell on it, my lord ; for I be his lord 
and master i' Christ, my lord. 253 

De Mormlle. Faugh ! we shall all 
be poisoned. Let us go. 

[They draw back, Beggars follow- 
ing. 

Seventh Beggar. My lord, I ha' three 
sisters a-dying at home o' the sweating 
sickness. They be dead while I be 
a-supping. 

Eighth Beggar. And I ha' nine 

darters i' the spital that be dead ten 

times o'er i' one day wi' the putrid 

fever ; and I bring the taint on it along 

wi' me, for the archbishop likes it, my 

lord. 205 

[Pressing upon the Knights till 

then disappear thro' the door. 

Third Beggar. Crutches, and itches, 

and leprosies, and ulcers, and gan- 



$3* 



BECKET 



ACT II 



grenes, and running sores, praise ye 
the Lord, for to-night ye have saved 
our archbishop ! 270 

First Beggar. I'll go back again. 
I hain't half done yet. 

Herbert of Bosham {entering). My 
friends, the archbishop bids you good- 
night. He hath retired to rest, and 
being in great jeopardy of his life, he 
hath made his bed between the altars, 
from whence he sends me to bid you 
this night pray for him who hath fed 
you in the wilderness. 280 

Third Beggar. So we will — so we 
will, I warrant thee. Becket shall be 
king, and the Holy Father shall be 
king, and the world shall live by the 
King's venison and the bread o' the 
Lord, and there shall be no more poor 
for ever. Hurrah ! Vive le Roy ! 
That 's the English of it. 



ACT II 

Scene I. — Rosamund's Bower 

A Garden of Flowers. In the midst a 
bank of wild-flowers with a bench be- 
fore it. 

Voices heard singing among the trees. 

Duet. 

1. Is it the wind of the dawn that I hear 

in the pine overhead ? 

2. No; but the voice of the deep as it hol- 

lows the cliffs of the land. 

1. Is there a voice coming up with the 

voice of the deep from the strand, 
One coming up with a song in the flush 
of the glimmering red ? 

2. Love that is born of the deep coming 

up with the sun from the sea. 

1. Love that can shape or can shatter a life 

till the life shall have fled ? 

2. Nay, let us welcome him, Love that can 

lift up a life from the dead. 

1. Keep him away from the lone little isle. 

Let us be, let us be. 

2. Nay, let him make it his own, let him 

reign in it — he, it is he, 
Love that is born of the deep coming up 
with the sun from the sea. 10 

Enter Henry and Rosamund. 

Rosamund. Be friends with him 
again — I do beseech thee. 



Henry. With Becket ? I have but 

one hour with thee — 
Sceptre and crozier clashing, and the 

mitre 
Grappling the crown — and when I 

flee from this 
For a gasp of freer air, a breathing- 
while 
To rest upon thy bosom and forget 

him — 
Why thou, my bird, thou pipest 

1 Becket, Becket' — 
Yea, thou my golden dream of Love's 

own bower, 
Must be the nightmare breaking on 

my peace 
With 'Becket.' 

Rosamund. O my life's life, not to 

smile 20 

Is all but death to me. My sun, no 

cloud ! 
Let there not be one frown in this one 

hour. 
Out of the many thine, let this be 

mine! 
Look rather thou all-royal as when 

first 
I met thee. 
Henry. Where was that ? 
Rosamund. Forgetting that 

Forgets me too. 

Henry. Nay, I remember it well. 
There on the moors. 

Rosamund. And in a narrow path. 
A plover flew before thee. Then I 

saw 
Thy high black steed among the flam- 
ing furze, 
Like sudden light in the main glare 

of day. 30 

And from that height something was 

said to me, 
I knew not what. 
Henry. I ask'd the way. 

Rosamund. I think so. 

So I lost mine. 
Henry. Thou wast too shamed to 

answer. 
Rosamund. Too scared — so young ! 
Henry. The rosebud of my rose ! — 
Well, well, no more of him — I have 

sent his folk, 
His kin, all his belongings, over- 
seas ; 
Age, orphans, and babe-breasting 

mothers — all 



SCENE I 



BECKET 



839 



By hundreds to him — there to beg, 

starve, die — 
So that the fool King Louis feed 

them not. 
The man shall feel that I can strike 
him yet. 40 

Rosamund. Babes, orphans, mo- 
thers ! is that royal, sire ? 
Henry. And I have been as royal 
with the Church. 
He shelter' d in the Abbey of Pontigny, 
There wore his time studying the 

canon law 
To work it against me. But since he 

cursed 
My friends at Veselay, I have let 

them know 
That if they keep him longer as their 

guest, 
I scatter all their cowls to all the hells. 
Rosamund. And is that altogether 

royal ? 

Henry. Traitress ! 

Rosamund. A faithful traitress to 

thy royal fame. 50 

Henry. Fame! what care I for 

fame? Spite, ignorance, envy, 

Yea, honesty too, paint her what way 

they will, 
Fame of to-day is infamy to-morrow ; 
Infamy of to - day is fame to - mor- 
row ; 
And round and round again. What 

matters ? Royal — 
I mean to leave the royalty of my 

crown 
Unlessen'd to mine heirs. 

Rosamund. Still — thy fame too ; 
I say that should be royal. 

Henry. And I say, 

I care not for thy saying. 

Rosamund. And I say, 

I care not for thy saying. A greater 

King 60 

Than thou art, Love, who cares not 

for the word, 
Makes ' care not ' — care. There have 
I spoken true ? 
Henry. Care dwell with me for 
ever when I cease 
To care for thee as ever ! 

Rosamund. No need ! no need ! . . . 
There is a bench. Come, wilt thou 

sit?— My bank 
Of wild-flowers [he sits]. At thy feet! 
[She sits at his feet. 



Henry. I bade them clear 

A royal pleasaunce for thee, in the 

wood, 
Not leave these country-folk at court. 
Rosamund. I brought them 

In from the wood, and set them here. 

I love them 
More than the garden flowers, that 

seem at most 7 o 

Sweet guests, or foreign cousins, not 

half speaking 
The language of the land. I love 

them too, 
Yes. But, my liege, I am sure, of all 

the roses — 
Shame fall on those who gave it a 

dog's name ! — 
This wild one (picking a briar-rose) — 

nay, I shall not prick myself — 
Is sweetest. Do but smell ! 

Henry. Thou rose of the world ! 
Thou rose of all the roses! [Muttering. 
I am not worthy of her — this beast- 
body 
That God has plunged my soul in — 

I, that taking 
The Fiend's advantage of a throne, so 

long 80 

Have wander'd among women, — a 

foul stream 
Thro' fever-breeding levels, — at her 

side, 
Among these happy dales, run clearer, 

drop 
The mud I carried, like yon brook, 

and glass 
The faithful face of heaven — 

[Looking at her, and unconsciously 

aloud, 

— thine ! thine ! 
Rosamund. I know it. 

Henry (muttering). Not hers. We 

have but one bond, her hate of 

Becket. 
Rosamund (half hearing). Nay ! nay ! 

what art thou muttering ? / 

hate Becket ? 
Henry {muttering). A sane and nat- 
ural loathing for a soul 
Purer, and truer and nobler than her- 
self ; 
And mine a bitterer illegitimate bate, 
A bastard hate born of a former 

love. 9 1 

Rosamund. My fault to name him ! 

O, let the hand of one 



840 



BECKET 



To whom thy voice is all her music 

stay it 
But for a breath ! 

[Puts her hand before his lips. 

Speak only of thy love. 

Why, there — like some loud beggar 

at thy gate 
The happy boldness of this hand hath 

won it — 

Love's alms, thy kiss (looking at her 

hand) — Sacred ! I '11 kiss it too. 

[Kissing it. 

There ! wherefore dost thou so peruse 

it ? Nay, 
There may be crosses in my line of 
life. 
Henry. Not half her hand — no hand 
to mate with her, 100 

If it should come to that. 
Rosamund. With her ? with whom ? 
Henry. Life on the hand is naked 
gipsy- stuff ; 
Life on the face, the brows — clear 

innocence ! 
Vein'd marble — not a furrow yet — 
and hers [Muttering. 

Crost and recrost, a venomous spider's 
web — 
Rosamund {springing up). Out of 
the cloud, my Sun — out of the 
eclipse 
Narrowing my golden hour ! 

Henry. O Rosamund, 

I would be true — would tell thee all 

— and something 
I had to say — I love thee none the 
less — 109 

Which will so vex thee. 

Rosamund. Something against me? 
Henry. No, no, against myself. 
Rosamund. I will not hear it. 

Come, come, mine hour! I bargain 

for mine hour. 
I '11 call thee little Geoffrey. 
Henry. Call him ! 

Rosamund. Geoffrey ! 

Enter Geoffrey. 

Henry. How the boy grows ! 
Rosamund. Ay, and his brows are 

thine ; 
The mouth is only Clifford, my dear 

father. 
Geoffrey. My liege, what hast thou 

brought me ? 
Henry. Venal imp ! 



ACT II 



What say'st thou to the Chancellor- 
ship of England ? 
Geoffrey. O, yes, my liege. 
Henry. ' O, yes, my liege ! ' He 
speaks 
As if it were a cake of gingerbread. 

Dost thou know, my boy, what it is 
to be Chancellor of England ? 121 

Geoffrey. Something good, or thou 
wouldst not give it me. 

Henry. It is, my boy, to side with 
the King when Chancellor, and then to 
be made archbishop and go against 
the King who made him, and turn the 
world upside down. 

Geoffrey. I won't have it then. Nay, 
but give it me, and I promise thee not 
to turn the world upside down. 131 
Henry (giving him a ball). Here is 
a ball, my boy, thy world, to turn any 
way and play with as thou wilt — 
which is more than I can do with 
mine. Go try it, play. 

[Exit Geoffrey. 
A pretty lusty boy. 

Rosamund. So like to thee ; 

Like to be liker. 

Henry. Not in my chin, I hope ! 
That threatens double. 

Rosamund. Thou art manlike per- 
fect. 
Henry. Ay, ay, no doubt ; and 
were I humpt behind, 140 

Thou'dst say as much — the goodly 

way of women 
Who love, for which I love them. 

May God grant 
No ill befall or him or thee when I 
Am gone ! 
Rosamund. Is he tlry enemy ? 
Henry. He ? who ? ay ! 

Rosamund. Thine enemy knows 

the secret of my bower. 
Henry. And I could tear him asun- 
der with wild horses 
Before he would betray it. Nay — no 

fear! 
More like is he to excommunicate me. 
Rosamund. And I would creep, 
crawl over knife-edge flint 
Barefoot, a hundred leagues, to stay 
his hand 150 

Before he flash'd the bolt. 

Henry. And when he flash'd it 

Shrink from me, like a daughter of 
the Church. 



SCENE II 



BECKET 



841 



Rosamund. Ay, but he will not. 
Henry. Ay ! but if he did ? 

Rosamund. O, then ! O, then ! I 
almost fear to say 
That my poor heretic heart would ex- 
communicate 
His excommunication, clinging to thee 
Closer than ever. 
Henry {raising Rosamund and kiss* 
ing her). My brave-hearted 
Rose ! 
Hath he ever been to see thee ? 

Rosamund. Here ? not he. 

And it is so lonely here — no confes- 
sor. 
Henry. Thou shalt confess all thy 
sweet sins to me. 160 

Rosamund. Besides, we came away 
in such a heat, 
I brought not even my crucifix. 
Henry. Take this. 

[Giving her the Crucifix which 
Eleanor gave him. 
Rosamund. O, beautiful ! May I 
have it as mine, till mine 
Be mine again? 

Henry (throwing it round her neck). 

Thine — as I am — till death ! 
Rosamund. Death ? no ! I '11 have 
it with me in my shroud, 
And wake with it, and show it to all 
the Saints. 
Henry. Nay — I must go ; but 
when thou lay est thy lip 
To this, remembering One who died 

for thee, 
Remember also one who lives for 

thee 
Out there in France ; for I must hence 
to brave 170 

The Pope, King Louis, and this tur- 
bulent priest. 
Rosamund (kneeling). O, by thy 
love for me, all mine for thee, 
Fling not thy soul into the flames of 

hell! 
I kneel to thee — be friends with him 
again. 
Henry. Look, look ! if little Geof- 
frey have not tost 
His ball into the brook ! makes after 

it too 
To find it. Why, the child will drown 
himself. 
Rosamund. Geoffrey ! Geoffrey ! 
[Exeunt. 



Scene II 

Montmirail 

1 The Meeting of the Kings.' John of 
Oxford and Henry. Crowd in the 
distance. 

John of Oxford. You have not 

crown'd young Henry yet, my 

liege ? 

Henry. Crown'd! by God's eyes, we 

will not have him crown'd. 

I spoke of late to the boy, he answer'd 

me, 
As if he wore the crown already — No, 
We will not have him crown'd. 
'T is true what Becket told me, that 

the mother 
Would make him play his kingship 
against mine. 
John of Oxford. Not have him 

crown'd ? 
Henry. Not now — not yet ! and 
Becket — 
Becket should crown him were he 

crown'd at all ; 
But, since we would be lord of our 
own manor, 10 

This Canterbury, like a wounded 

deer, 
Has fled our presence and our feeding- 
grounds. 
John of Oxford. Cannot a smooth 
tongue lick him whole again 
To serve your will ? 

Henry. He hates my will, not me. 
John of Oxford. There 's York, my 

liege. 
Henry. But England scarce would 
hold 
Young Henry king, if only crown'd 

by York, 
And that would stilt up York to twice 

himself. 
There is a movement yonder in the 

crowd — 
See if our pious — what shall I call 

him, John ? — 
Husband-in-law, or smooth-shorn su- 
zerain, 20 
Be yet within the field. 
John of Oxford. I will. [ Exit 
Henry. Ay ! Ay ! 
Mince and go back ! his politic Holi 



842 



BECKET 



ACT II 



Hath all but clinib'd the Roman perch 
again, 

And we shall hear him presently with 
clapt wing 

Crow over Barbarossa — at last tongue- 
free 

To blast my realms with excommuni- 
cation 

And interdict. I must patch up a 
peace — 

A peace in this long-tugged-at, thread- 
bare-worn 

Quarrel of Crown and Church — to 
rend again. 

His Holiness cannot steer straight 
thro' shoals, 30 

Nor I. The citizen's heir hath con- 
quer' d me 

For the moment. So we make our 
peace with him. 
Enter Louis. 

Brother of France, what shall be done 
with Becket ? 
Louis. The Holy Thomas ! Bro- 
ther, you have traffick'd 

Between the Emperor and the Pope, 
between 

The Pope and Antipope — a perilous 
game 

For men to play with God. 
Henry. Ay, ay, good brother, 

They call you the Monk-King. 
Louis. Who calls me ? she 

That was my wife, now yours ? You 
have her Duchy, 

The point you aim'd at, and pray God 
she prove 40 

True wife to you. You have had the 
better of us 

In secular matters. 
Henry. Come, confess, good bro- 
ther, 

You did your best or worst to keep 
her Duchy. 

Only the golden Leopard printed in 
it 

Such hold-fast claws that you per- 
force again 

Shrank into France. Tut, tut ! did 
we convene 

This conference but to babble of our 
wives ? 

They are plagues enough in-door. 
LjOuis. We fought in the East, 

And felt the sun of Antioch scald our 
mail, 



And push'd our lances into Saracen 

hearts. 50 

We never hounded on the State at 

home 
To spoil the Church. 
Henry. How should you see this 

rightly ? 
Louis. Well, well, no more ! I 
am proud of my 'Monk-King/ 
Whoever named me ; and, brother, 

Holy Church 
May rock, but will not wreck, nor our 

archbishop 
Stagger on the slope decks for any 

rough sea 
Blown by the breath of kings. We 

do forgive you 
For aught you wrought against us. 

[Henry holds up his hand. 
Nay, I pray you, 
Do not defend yourself. You will do 
much 59 

To rake out all old dying heats if you, 
At my requesting, will but look into 
The wrongs you did him, and restore 

his kin, 
Reseat him on his throne of Canter- 
bury, 
Be, both, the friends you were. 

Henry. The friends we were \ 

Co-mates we were, and had our sport 

together. 
Co-kings we were, and made the laws 

together. 
The world had never seen the like 

before. 
You are too cold to know the fashion 

of it. 
Well, well, we will be gentle with him, 

gracious — 
Most gracious. 

Enter Becket, after him, John op 
Oxford, Roger of York, Gil- 
bert Foliot, De Broc, Fitzurse, 
etc. 

Only that the rift he made 
May close between us, here I am 
wholly king, 71 

The word should come from him. 
Becket (kneeling). Then, my dear 
liege, 
I here deliver all this controversy 
Into your royal hands. 

Henry. Ah, Thomas, Thomas, 

Thou art thyself again, Thomas again. 

Becket (rising). Saving God's honor! 



SCENE II 



BECKET 



843 



Henry. Out upon thee, man ! 

Saving the devil's honor, his yes and 
no. 

Knights, bishops, earls, this London 
spawn — by Mahound, 

I had sooner have been born a Mussul- 
man — 

Less clashing with their priests — 80 

I am half-way down the slope — will 
no man stay me ? 

I dash myself to pieces — I stay my- 
self — 

Puff — it is gone. You, Master 
Becket, you 

That owe to me your power over me — 

Nay, nay — 

Brother of France, you have taken, 
cherish'd him 

Who thief -like fled from his own 
church by night, 

No man pursuing. I would have had 
him back. 

Take heed he do not turn and rend 
you too: 

For whatsoever may displease him — 
that 90 

Is clean against God's honor — a shift, 
a trick 

Whereby to challenge, face me out of 
all 

My regal rights. Yet, yet — that none 
may dream 

I go against God's honor — ay, or him- 
self 

In any reason, choose 

A hundred of the wisest heads from 
England, 

A hundred, too, from Normandy and 
Anjou ; 

Let these decide on what was custom- 
ary 

In olden days, and all the Church of 
France 

Decide on their decision, I am con- 
tent. 100 

More, what the mightiest and the ho- 
liest 

Of all his predecessors may have done 

Even to the least and meanest of my 
own, 

Let him do the same to me — I am 
content. 
Louis. Ay, ay ! the King humbles 

himself enough. 
Becket {aside). Words ! he will wrig- 
gle out of them like an eel 



When the time serves. {Aloud.) My 

lieges and my lords, 
The thanks of Holy Church are due to 

those 
That went before us for their work, 

which we 
Inheriting reap an easier harvest. 

Yet— IIO 

Louis. My lord, will you be greater 

than the Saints, 
More than Saint Peter ? whom — what 

is it you doubt ? 
Behold your peace at hand. 

Becket. I say that those 

Who went before us did not wholly 

clear 
The deadly growths of earth, which 

hell's own heat 
So dwelt on that they rose and dark- 

en'd heaven. 
Yet they did much. Would God they 

had torn up all 
By the hard root, which shoots again ; 

our trial 
Had so been less; but, seeing they 

were men 
Defective or excessive, must we fol- 
low 120 
All that they overdid or underdid ? 
Nay, if they were defective as Saint 

Peter 
Denying Christ, who yet defied the 

tyrant, 
We hold by his defiance, not his de- 
fect. 

good son Louis, do not counsel me, 
No, to suppress God's honor for the 

sake 
Of any king that breathes. No, God 

forbid ! 
Henry. No ! God forbid ! and turn 

me Mussulman ! 
No God but one, and Mahound is his 

prophet. 
But for your Christian, look you, you 

shall have 130 

None other God but me — me, Thomas, 

son 
Of Gilbert Becket, London merchant. 

Out ! 

1 hear no more. | Exit. 
Louis. Our brother's anger puts him, 

Poor man, beside himself — not wise. 

My lord, 
We have claspt your cause, believing 

that our brother 



8 4 4 



BECKET 



ACT II 



Had wrong'd you ; but this day he 

proffer 'd peace. 
You will have war ; and tho' we grant 

the Church 
King over this world's kings, yet, my 

good lord, 
We that are kings are something in 

this world, 
And so we pray you, draw yourself 
from under 140 

The wings of France. We shelter you 
no more. [Exit. 

John of Oxford, I am glad that 
France hath scouted him at last. 
I told the Pope what manner of man 
he was. [Exit. 

Roger of York. Yea. since he flouts 
the will of either realm. 
Let either cast him away like a dead 
dog ! [Exit. 

Foliot. "Yea, let a stranger spoil his 
heritage, 
And let another take his bishopric ! 

[Exit. 
Be Broc. Our castle, my lord, be- 
longs to Canterbury. 
I pray you come and take it. [Exit. 
Fiizurse. When you will. 

[Exit. 

Becket. Cursed be John of Oxford, 

Roger of York. 150 

And Gilbert Foliot! cursed those De 

Brocs 
That hold our Saltwood Castle from 

our see ! 
CursedFitzurse, and all the rest of them 
That sow this hate between my lord 
and me ! 
Voices from the Crowd. Blessed be 
the lord archbishop, who hath with- 
stood two kings to their faces for the 
honor of God. 

Becket. Out of the mouths of babes 

and sucklings, praise ! 

I thank you, sons : when kings but 

hold by crowns, 160 

The crowd that hungers for a crown 

in heaven 
Is my true king. 

II rbi rt. Thy true King bade thee be 
A fisher of men ; thou "hast them in 
thy net. 
Becket. I am too like the King here ; 
both of us 
Too headlong for our office. Better 
have been 



A fisherman at Bosham, my good Her- 
bert, 
Thy birthplace — the sea-creek — the 

petty rill 
That falls into it — the green field — * 

the gray church — 
The simple lobster-basket, and the 

mesh — 
The more or less of daily labor done — 
The pretty gaping bills in the home- 
nest 171 
Piping for bread — the daily want 

supplied — 
The daily pleasure to supply it. 

Herbert. Ah. Thomas, 

You had not borne it, no, not for a 
day. 
Becket* Well, maybe, no. 
Herbert. But bear with Walter Map, 
For here he comes to comment on the 
time. 
Enter Walter Map. 
Walter Map. Pity, my lord, that you 
have quenched the warmth of France 
toward you, tho' His Holiness, after 
much smouldering and smoking, be 
kindled again upon your quarter. 181 
Becktt. Ay, if he do not end in smoke 

again. 
Walter Map. My lord, the fire, when 
first kindled, said to the smoke, 'Go 
up, my son, straight to heaven/ And 
the smoke said, ' I go ; ' but anon the 
Xortheast took and turned him South- 
west, then the Southwest turned him 
Xortheast, and so of the other winds ; 
but it was in him to go up straight if 
the time had been quieter. Your lord- 
ship affects the unwavering perpen- 
dicular : but His Holiness, pushed one 
way by the Empire and another by 
England, if he move at all — Heaven 
stay him ! — is fain to diagonalize. 
Herbert. Diagonalize ! thou art a 
wordmonger. 
Our Thomas never will diagonalize. 
Thou art a jester and a verse-maker. 
Diagonalize ! 200 

Walter Map. Is the world any the 
worse for my verses if the Latin 
rhymes be rolled out from a full 
mouth ? or any harm done to the peo- 
ple if mv jest be in defense of the 
Truth? 

Becket. Ay. if the jest be so done 
that the people 



SCENE II 



BECKET 



845 



Delight to wallow in the grossness of 

it, 
Till Truth herself be shamed of her 

defender. 209 

Son defensoribus istis, Walter Map ! 

Walter Map. Is that my ease ? so if 
the city be sick, and I cannot call the 
kennel sweet, your lordship would 
suspend me from verse writing, as 
you suspended yourself after "sub- 
writing to the customs. 

Becket. I pray God pardon mine 

infirmity ! 217 

Walter Map. Xay, my lord, take 
heart ; for tho' you suspended your- 
self, the Pope let you down again ; 
and tho" you suspend Foliot or an- 
other, the Pope will not leave them 
in suspense, for the Pope himself is 
always in suspense, like Mahound's 
coffin hung between heaven and earth 
— always in suspense, like the scales, 
till the weight of Germany or the 
gold of England brings one of them 
down to the dust — always in sus- 
pense, like the tail of the horologe — 
to and fro — tick-tack — we make the 
time, we keep the time, ay, and we 
serve the time ; for I have heard say 
that if you boxed the Pope's ears with 
a purse, you might stagger him, but 
he would pocket the purse. N< 
ing of mine — Jocelyn of Salisbury. 
But the King hath bought half the 
College of Red-hats. He warmed to 
you to-day, and you have chilled him 
again. Yet you both love God. Agree 
with him quickly again, even for the 
sake of the Church. My one grain of 
good counsel which you will not swal- 
low. I hate a split between old friend- 
ships as I hate the dirty gap in the 
face of a Cistercian monk, that will 
swallow anything. Farewell. [Exit. 
Becket. Map scoffs at Rome. I all 

but hold with Map. 
Save for myself no Rome were left in 

England, 250 

All had been his. Why should this 

Rome, this Rome. 
Still choose Barabbas rather than the 

Christ, 
lve the left-hand thief and damn 

the right ? 
Take fees of tyranny, wink at sacri- 
lege, 



Which even Peter had not dared ? 

condemn 
The blameless exile V — 

Herbert, Thee, thou holy Thomas! 
I would that thou hadst been the Holv 

Father. 
Becket. I would have done my most 

to keep Rome holy, 
I would have made Rome know she 

still is Rome — 
Who stands aghast at her eternal self 
And shakes at mortal kings — her va- 
cillation, 261 
Avarice, craft — O God, how many an 

innocent 
Has left his bones upon the way to 

Rome 
Unwept, uncared for ! Yea — on mine 

own self 
The King had had no power except 

for Rome. 
'T is not the King who is guilty of 

mine exile, 
But Rome, Rome, Rome! 

Herbert. My lord, I see this Louis 
Returning, ah ! to drive thee from his 

realm. 
Becket. He said as much before. 

Thou art no prophet, 
Xor yet a prophet's son. 

//< rbert. Whatever he say, 

Deny not thou God's honor for a 

king. 271 

The King looks troubled. 

iter King Louis. 
Louis. My dear lord archbishop, 
I learn but now that those poor Poite- 

vins 
That in thy cause were stirr'd against 

King Henry 
Have been, despite his kingly promise 

given 
To our own self of pardon, evilly 

used 
And put to pain. I have lost all tru>t 

in him. 
The Church alone hath eyes — and 

now I - 
That I was blind — suffer the phrase 

— surrenderinir 
God's honor to the pleasure of a 

man. 280 

Forgive me and absolve me, holy 

fatL [ K 

Be< i b solve thee in tin- 

name of God. 



846 



BECKET 



ACT III 



Louis {rising). Return to Sens, 

where we will care for you. 
The wine and wealth of all our France 

are yours ; 
Rest in our realm, and be at peace 

with all. [Exeunt. 

Voices from the Crowd. Long live 
the good King Louis ! God bless the 
great archbishop ! 

Re-enter Henry and John of Ox- 
ford. 
Henry (looking after 'King Louisa^ 

Becket). Ay, there they go — 

both backs are turn'd to me — 
Why, then I strike into my former 

path 290 

For England, crown young Henry 

there, and make 
Our waning Eleanor all but love me ! 

John, 
Thou hast served me heretofore with 

Rome — and well. 
They call thee John the Swearer. 

John of Oxford. For this reason, 
That, being ever duteous to the King, 
I evermore have sworn upon his 

side, 
And ever mean to do it. 
Henry (claps him on the shoulder). 
Honest John ! 
To Rome again! the storm begins 

again. 
Spare not thy tongue ! be lavish with 

our coins, 
Threaten our junction with the Em- 
peror — flatter 300 
And fright the Pope — bribe all the 

cardinals — leave 
Lateran and Vatican in one dust of 

gold — 
Swear and unswear, state and misstate 

thy best ! 
I go to have young Henry crowh'd by 

York. 



ACT III 

Scene I. — The Bower 

Henry and Rosamund. 

Henry. All that you say is just. 
I cannot answer it 
Till better times, when I shall put 
away — 



Rosamund. What will you put away ? 

Henry. That which you ask me 

Till better times. Let it content you 

now 
There is no woman that I love so 

well. 
Rosamund. No woman but should 

be content with that — 
Henry. And one fair child to 

fondle ! 
Rosamund. O, yes, the child 
We waited for so long — Heaven's gift 

at last — 
And how you doted on him then ! 

To-day 
I almost fear'dyour kiss was colder — 

yes — 10 

But then the child is such a child ! 

What chance 
That he should ever spread into the 

man 
Here in our silence ? I have done 

my best. 
I am not learn'd. 

Henry. I am the King, his father, 
And I will look to it. Is our secret 

ours ? 
Have you had any alarm? no 

stranger ? 
Rosamund. No. 

The warder of the bower hath given 

himself 
Of late to wine. I sometimes think he 

sleeps 
When he should watch ; and yet what 

fear ? the people 
Believe the wood enchanted. No one 

comes, # 20 

Nor foe nor friend ; his fond excess 

of wine 
Springs from the loneliness of my poor 

bower, 
Which weighs even on me. 

Henry. Yet these tree-towers, 

Their long bird -echoing minster- 
aisles, — the voice 
Of the perpetual brook, these golden 

slopes 
Of Solomon-shaming flowers — that 

was your saying, 
All pleased you so at first. 

Rosamund. Not now so much. 

My Anjou bower was scarce as beau- 
tiful. 
But you were oftener there. I have 

none but you. 



SCENE I 



BECKET 



847 



The brook's voice is not yours, and no 

flower, not 30 

The sun himself, should he be changed 

to one, 
€ould shine away the darkness of that 

gap 
Left by the lack of love. 

Henry. The lack of love ! 

Rosamund. Of one we love. Nay, 
I would not be bold, 
Yet hoped ere this you might — 

[Looks earnestly at Mm. 
Henry. Anything further ? 

Bosamund. Only my best bower- 
maiden died of late, 
And that old priest whom John of 

Salisbury trusted 
Hath sent another. 
Henry. Secret ? 

Rosamund. I but ask'd her 

One question, and she primm'd her 

mouth and put 
Her hands together — thus — and said, 
God help her, 40 

That she was sworn to silence. 
Henry. What did you ask her ? 

Bosamund. Some daily something- 
nothing. 
Henry. Secret, then? 

Rosamund. I do not love her. Must 
you go, my liege, 
So suddenly ? 

Henry. I came to England sud- 

denly, 
And on a great occasion sure to wake 
As great a wrath in Becket — 

Rosamund. Always Becket ! 

He always comes between us. 

Henry. And to meet it 

I needs must leave as suddenly. It is 

raining, 
Put on your hood and see me to the 
bounds. {Exeunt. 

Margery {sinking behind scene). 

Babble in bower 50 

Under the rose ! 
Bee mustn't buzz, 

Whoop — but he knows. 

Kiss me, little one, 

Nobody near ! 
Grasshopper, grasshopper, 

Whoop — you can hear. 

Kiss in the bower, 

Tit on the tree ! 
Bird must n't tell, 60 

Whoop — he can see. 



Enter Margery. 

I ha' been but a week here and I ha' 
seen what I ha' seen, for to be sure it's 
no more than a week since our old 
Father Philip that has confessed our 
mother for twenty years, and she was 
hard put to it, and to speak truth, 
nigh at the end of our last crust, and 
that mouldy, and she cried out on him 
to put me forth in the world and to 
make me a woman of the world, and 
to win my own bread, whereupon he 
asked our mother if I could keep a 
quiet tongue i' my head, and not 
speak till I was spoke to, and I an- 
swered for myself that I never spoke 
more than was needed, and he told me 
he would advance me to the service of 
a great lady, and took me ever so far 
away, and gave me a great pat o' the 
cheek for a pretty wench, and said it 
was a pity to blindfold such eyes as 
mine, and such to be sure they be, but 
he blinded 'em for all that, and so 
brought me no-hows as I may say, and 
the more shame to him after his pro- 
mise, into a garden and not into the 
world, and bade me whatever I saw 
not to speak one word, an' it 'ud be 
well for me in the end, for there were 
great ones who would look after me, 
and to be sure I ha' seen great ones 
to-day — and then not to speak one 
word, for that's the rule o' the garden, 
tho' to be sure if I had been Eve i' 
the garden I should n't ha' minded the 
apple, for what 's an apple, you know 
save to a child, and I 'm no child, but 
more a woman o' the world than my 
lady here, and I ha' seen what I ha' 
seen — tho' to be sure if I had n't 
minded it we should all on us ha' had 
to go, bless the Saints, wi' bare backs, 
but the backs 'ud ha' countenanced 
one another, and belike it 'ud ha' been 
always summer, and anyhow I am as 
well-shaped as my lady here, and I 
ha' seen what I ha' seen, and what 's 
the good of my talking to myself, for 
here comes my lady {enter Rosamund), 
and, my lady, tho' I should n't speak 
one word, I wish you joy o' the bung's 
brother. 113 

Rosamund. What is it you mean V 
Margery. I mean your goodman, 
your husband, my lady, for 1 saw 



848 



BECKET 



ACT III 



your ladyship a-parting wi' him even 
now i' the coppice, when I was a-get- 
ting o' bluebells for your ladyship's 
nose to smell on — and I ha' seen the 
King once at Oxford, and he 's as like 
the King as fingernail to fingernail, 
and I thought at first it was the King, 
only you know the King's married, 
for King Louis — 125 

Rosamund. Married ! 

Margery. Years and years, my lady, 
for her husband, King Louis — 

Rosamund. Hush ! 

Margery. And I thought if it were 
the King's brother he had a better 
bride than the King, for the people do 
say that his is bad beyond all reckon- 
ing, and — 

Rosamund. The people lie. 135 

Margery. Very like, my lady, but 
most on 'em know an honest woman 
and a lady when they see her, and 
besides they say. she makes songs, 
and that 's against her, for I never 
knew an honest woman that could 
make songs, tho' to be sure our mo- 
ther '11 sing me old songs by the 
hour, but then, God help her, she 
had 'em from her mother, and her 
mother from her mother back and 
back for 'ever so long, but none on 
'em ever made songs, and they were 
all honest. 

Rosamund. Go, you shall tell me 
of her some other time. 151 

Margery. There 's none so much to 
tell on her, my lady, only she kept the 
seventh commandment better than 
some I know on, or I couldn't look 
your ladyship i' the face, and she 
brew'd the best ale in all Glo'ster, 
that is to say in her time when she 
had the ' Crown.' 

Rosamund. The crown ! who ? 160 

Margery. Mother. 

Rosamund. I mean her whom you 
call — fancy — my husband's brother's 
wife. 

Margery. O, Queen Eleanor. Yes, 
my lady ; and tho' I be sworn not to 
speak a word, I can tell you all about 
her, if — 

Rosamund. No word now. I am 
faint and sleepy. Leave me. Nay 
— go. What ! will you anger me ? 
[Exit Margery. 



He charged me not to questio 1 any of 

those 172 

About me. Have I ? no ! she ques- 
tion' d me. 
Did she not slander Mm f Should she 

stay here ? 
May she not tempt me, being at my 

side, 
To question her? Nay, can I send 

her hence 
Without his kingly leave ? I am in 

the dark. 
I have lived, poor bird, from cage to 

cage, and known 
Nothing but him — happy to know 

no more, 
So that he loved me — and he loves 

me — yes, 18a 

And bound me by his love to secrecy 
Till his own time. 

Eleanor, Eleanor, have I 
Not heard ill things of her in France? 

O, she's 
The Queen of France. I see it — 

some confusion, 
Some strange mistake. I did not hear 

aright, 
Myself confused with parting from 

the King. 

Margery (behind scene). 

Bee must n't buzz, 

Whoop — but he knows. 

Rosamund. Yet her — what her ? 
he hinted of some her — 

When he was here before — 190 

Something that would displease me. 
Hath he stray'd 

From love's clear path into the com- 
mon bush, 

And, being scratch'd, returns to his 
true rose, 

Who hath not thorn enough to prick 
him for it, 

Even with a word ? 

Margery (behind scene). 

Bird must n't tell, 
Whoop — he can see. 

Rosamund. I would not hear him. 

Nay — there's more — he 

frown'd 
' No mate for her, if it should come to 

that' — 
To that — to what ? 200 



SCENE III 



BECKET 



849 



Margery (behind scene). 

Whoop — but he knows, 
Whoop — but he knows. 

Rosamund. O God ! some dreadful 
truth is breaking on me — 
Some dreadful thing is coming on me. 
Enter Geoffrey. 

Geoffrey ! 
Geoffrey. What are you crying for, 

when the sun shines ? 
Rosamund. Hath not thy father 

left us to ourselves ? 
Geoffrey. Ay, but he's taken the 
rain with him. I hear Margery : I '11 
go play with her. [Exit Geoffrey. 

Rosamund. 

Rainbow, stay, 210 

Gleam upon gloom, 
Bright as my dream, 
Rainbow, stay! 
But it passes away, 
Gloom upon gleam, 
Dark as my doom — 
O rainbow," stay ! 



Scene II 

Outside the Woods near Rosa- 
mund's Bower 

Eleanor. Fitzurse. 

Eleanor. Up from the salt lips of 
the land we two 
Have track'd the King to this dark 

inland wood ; 
And somewhere hereabouts he van- 

ish'd. Here 
His turtle builds ; his exit is our adit. 
Watch! he will out again, and pre- 
sently, 
Seeing he must to Westminster and 

crown 
Young Henry there to-morrow. 

Fitzurse. ' We have watch' d 

So long in vain, he hath pass'd out 

again, 
And on the other side. 

[A great horn winded. 

Hark! Madam! 

Eleanor. Ay, 

How ghostly sounds that horn in the 

black wood ! 10 

[A countryman flying. 



Whither away, man? what are you 

flying from ? 

Countryman. The witch ! the witch ! 

she sits naked by a great heap of gold 

in the middle of the wood, and when 

the horn sounds she comes out as a 

wolf. Get you hence ! a man passed 

in there to-day. I holla'd to him, but 

he did n't hear me ; he '11 never out 

again, the witch has got him. I 

dare n't stay — I dare n't stay ! 20 

Eleanor. Kind of the witch to give 

thee warning, tho'. [Man flies. 

Is not this wood-witch of the rustic's 

fear 
Our woodland Circe that hath witch' d 
the King ? 

[Horn sounded. Another flying. 
Fitzurse. Again ! stay, fool, and 

tell me why thou fliest. 

Countryman. Fly thou too. The 

King keeps his forest head of game 

here, and when that horn sounds a 

score of wolf-dogs are let loose that 

will tear thee piecemeal. Linger not 

till the third horn. Fly ! [Exit. 

Eleanor. This is the likelier tale. 

We have hit the place. 31 

Now let the King's fine game look to 

itself. [Horn. 

Fitzurse. Again ! — 

And far on in the dark heart of the 

wood 
I hear the yelping of the hounds of 
hell. 
Eleanor. I have my dagger here to 

still their throats. 
Fitzurse. Nay, madam, not to-night 
— the night is falling. 
What can be done to-night ? 

Eleanor. Well — well — away. 



Scene III 

Traitor's Meadow at Freteval. 
Pavilions and Tents of thh 
English and French Barona<k 

Becket and Herbert of Bosiiam. 

Becket. See here ! 
Herbert. What 's here ? 
Becket. A notice from the priest 

To whom our John of Salisbury com- 
mitted 



8 5 o 



BECKET 



ACT III 



The secret of the bower, that our 

wolf -Queen 
Is prowling round the fold. I should 

be back 
In England even for this. 

Herbert. These are by-things 

In the great cause. 

Becket. The by- things of the Lord 
Are the wrong'd innocences that will 

cry 
From all the hidden by-ways of the 

world 
In the great day against the w T ronger. 

I know 
Thy meaning. Perish she, I, all, be- 
fore 10 
The Church should suffer wrong! 

Herbert. Do you see, my lord, 

There is the King talking with Walter 
Map? 
Becket. He hath the Pope's last let- 
ters, and they threaten 
The immediate thunder-blast of inter- 
dict ; 
Yet he can scarce be touching upon 

those, 
Or scarce would smile that fashion. 

Herbert. Winter sunshine ! 

Beware of opening out thy bosom to 

it, 
Lest thou, myself, and all thy flock 

should catch 
An after ague-fit of trembling. Look! 
He bows, he bares his head, he is 
coming hither. 20 

Still with a smile. 

Enter King Henry and Walter 
Map. 
Henry. We have had so many hours 
together, Thomas, 
So many happy hours alone together, 
That I would speak with you once 
more alone. 
Becket. My liege, your will and 
happiness are mine. 

[Exeunt King and Becket. 
Herbert. The same smile still. 
Walter Map. Do you see that great 
black cloud that hath come over the 
sun and cast us all into shadow ? 
Herbert. And feel it too. 30 

Walter Map. And see you yon side- 
beam that is forced from under it, and 
sets the church-tower over there all 
a-hell-fire as it were ? 
Herbert. Ay. 



Walter Map. It is this black, bell- 
silencing, anti-marrying, burial-hin- 
dering interdict that hath squeezed 
out this side-smile upon Canterbury, 
whereof may come conflagration. 
Were I Thomas, I would n't trust it. 
Sudden change is a house on sand ; 
and tho' I count Henry honest enough, 
yet when fear creeps in at the front, 
honesty steals out at the back, and 
the King at last is fairly scared by 
this cloud — this interdict. I have 
been more for the King than the 
Church in this matter — yea, even for 
the sake of the Church ; for, truly, as 
the case stood, you had safelier have 
slain an archbishop than a she-goat. 
But our recoverer and upholder of 
customs hath in this crowning of 
young Henry by York and London so 
violated the immemorial usage of the 
Church, that, like the grave-digger's 
child I have heard of, trying to ring 
the bell, he hath half-hanged himself 
in the rope of the Church, or rather 
pulled all the Church w T ith the Holy 
Father astride of it down upon his 
own head. 63 

Herbert. Were you there ? 

Walter Map. In the church rope ? 
— no. I was at the crowning, for I 
have pleasure in the pleasure of 
crowds, and to read the faces of men 
at a great show. 

Herbert. And how did Roger of 
York comport himself ? 71 

Walter Map. As magnificently and 
archiepiscopally as our Thomas would 
have done : only there was a dare- 
devil in his eye — I should say a dare- 
Becket. He thought less of two kings 
than of one Roger, the king of the oc- 
casion. Foliot is the holier man, per- 
haps the better. Once or twice there 
ran a twitch across his face, as who 
should say 'what's to follow?' but 
Salisbury was a calf cowed by Mother 
Church, and every now and then 
glancing about him like a thief at 
night when he hears a door open in 
the house and thinks 'the master/ 86 

Herbert. And the father -king ? 

Walter Map. The father's eye was 
so tender it would have called a goose 
off the green, and once he strove to 
hide his face, like the Greek king 



SCENE III 



BECKET 



851 



when his daughter was sacrificed, but 
he thought better of it. It was but 
the sacrifice of a kingdom to his son, 
a smaller matter ; but as to the young 
crownling himself, he looked so mala- 
pert in the eyes, that had I fathered 
him I had given him more of the rod 
than the sceptre. Then followed the 
thunder of the captains and the shout- 
ing, and so we came on to the ban- 
quet, from whence there puffed out 
such an incense of unctuosity into the 
nostrils of our Gods of Church and 
State, that Lucullus or Apicius might 
have sniffed it in their Hades of 
heathenism, so that the smell of their 
own roast had not come across it — 108 

Herbert. Map, tho' you make your 
butt too big, you overshoot it. 

Walter Map. For as to the fish, they 
de-miracled the miraculous draught, 
and might have sunk a navy — 

Herbert. There again, Goliasing and 
Goliathizing ! 

Walter Map. And as for the flesh 
at table, a whole Peter's sheet, with 
all manner of game, and four-footed 
things, and fowls — 

Herbert. And all manner of creep- 
ing things too ? 121 

Walter Map. Well, there were ab- 
bots—but they did not bring their 
women ; and so we were dull enough 
at first, but in the end we flourished 
out into a merriment ; for the old King 
would act servitor and hand a dish to 
his son ; whereupon my Lord of York 
— his fine-cut face bowing and beam- 
ing with all that courtesy which hath 
less loyalty in it than the backward 
scrape of the clown's heel — ' great 
honor,' says he, ' from the King's self 
to the King's son.' Did you hear the 
young King's quip ? 135 

Herbert. No, what was it ? 

Walter Map. Glancing at the days 
when his father was only Earl of An- 
jou, he answered, ' Should not an 
earl's son wait on a king's son V And 
when the cold corners of the King's 
mouth began to thaw, there was a 
great motion of laughter among us, 
part real, part childlike, to be freed 
from the dulness — part royal, for 
King and kingling both laughed, and 
so we could not but laugh, as by a 



royal necessity — part childlike again 
— when we felt we had laughed too 
long and could not stay ourselves — 
many midriff-shaken even to tears, as 
springs gush out after earthquakes — 
but from those, as I said before, there 
may come a conflagration — tho', to 
keep the figure moist and make it 
hold water, I should say rather, the 
lacrymation of a lamentation ; but 
look if Thomas have not flung himself 
at the King's feet. They have made 
it up again — for the moment. 160 

Herbert. Thanks to the blessed 
Magdalene, whose day it is! 

Re-enter Henry and Becket. {Dur- 
ing their conference the Barons and 
Bishops of France and England 
come in at back of stage. ) 

Becket. Ay, King ! for in thy king- 
dom, as thou knowest, 
The spouse of the Great King, thy 

King, hath fallen — 
The daughter of Zion lies beside the 

way — 
The priests of Baal tread her under- 
foot — 
The golden ornaments are stolen from 
her — 
Henry. Have I not promised to 
restore her, Thomas, 
And send thee back again to Canter- 
bury ? 
Becket. Send back again those 
exiles of my kin 170 

Who wander famine-wasted thro' the 
world. 
Henry. Have I not promised, man, 

to send them back ? 
Becket. Yet one thing more. Thou 
hast broken thro' the pales 
Of privilege, crowning thy young son 

by York, 
London, and Salisbury — not Canter- 
bury. 
Henry. York crown'd the Con- 
queror — not Canterbury. 
Becket. There was no Canterbury 

in William's time. 
Henry. But Hereford, you know, 

crown'd the first Henry. 
Becket. But Anselm crown'd this 

Henry o'er again. 
Henry. And thou shalt crown my 
Henry o'er again. 180 



8 5 2 



BECKET 



ACT III 



Becket. And is it then with thy 
goodwill that I 
Proceed against thine evil council- 
lors, 
And hurl the dread ban of the Church 

on those 
Who made the second mitre play the 

first, 
And acted me ? 
Henry. Well, well, then — have 
thy way ! 
It may be they were evil councillors. 
What more, my lord archbishop ? 

What more, Thomas ? 
I make thee full amends. Say all thy 

say, 
But blaze not out before the French- 
men here. 
Becket. More? Nothing, so thy 
promise be thy deed. 190 

Henry {holding out his hand). Give 
me thy hand. My Lords of 
France and England, 
My friend of Canterbury and myself 
Are now once more at perfect amity. 
Unkingly should I be, and most un- 

knightly, 
Not striving still, however much in 

vain, 
To rival him in Christian charity. 
Herbert. All praise to Heaven, and 

sweet Saint Magdalen ! 
Henry. And so farewell until we 

meet in England. 
Becket. I fear, my liege, we may 

not meet in England. 
Henry. How, do you make me a 

traitor ? 
Becket. No, indeed! 200 

That be far from thee. 

Henry. Come, stay with us, then, 
Before you part for England. 

Becket. I am bound 

For that one hour to stay with good 

King Louis, 
Who helpt me when none else. 

Herbert. He said thy life 

Was not one hour's worth in England 

save 
King Henry gave thee first the kiss of 
peace. 
Henry. He said so ? Louis, did 
he ? look you, Herbert, 
When I was in mine anger with King 
Louis, 



I sware I would not give the kiss of 

peace, 
Not on French ground, nor any ground 

but English, 210 

Where his cathedral stands. Mine old 

friend, Thomas, 
I would there were that perfect trust 

between us, 
That health of heart, once ours, ere 

Pope or King 
Had come between us ! Even now — 

who knows ? — 
I might deliver all things to thy hand — 
If — but I say no more — farewell, my 

lord. 
Becket. Farewell, my liege ! 

[Exit Henry, then the Barons and 

Bishops. 
Walter Map. There again ! when 
the full fruit of the royal promise 
might have dropt into thy mouth 
hadst thou but opened it to thank 
him. 222 

Becket. He fenced his royal pro- 
mise with an if. 
Walter Map. And is the King's if 
too high a stile for your lordship to 
overstep and come at all things in the 
next field ? 

Becket. Ay, if this if be like the 

devil's 'if 
Thou wilt fall down and worship me.' 
Herbert. O, Thomas, 

I could fall down and worship thee, 

my Thomas, 230 

For thou hast trodden this wine-press 

alone. 
Becket. Nay, of the people there 

are many with me. 
Walter Map. I am not altogether 
with you, my lord, tho' I am none of 
those that would raise a storm between 
you, lest ye should draw together like 
two ships in a calm. You wrong the 
King : he meant what he said to : day. 
Who shall vouch for his to-morrows ? 
One word further. Doth not the felo- 
ness of anything make the fulness of 
it in estimation ? Is not virtue prized 
mainly for its rarity and great base- 
ness loathed as an exception : for were 
all, my lord, as noble as yourself, who 
would look up to you? and were all 
as base as — who shall I say ? — Fitz- 
urse and his following — who would 



SCENE I 



BECKET 



*53 



look down upon them ? My lord, you 
have put so many of the King's house- 
hold out of communion, that they be- 
gin to smile at it. 252 
Becket. At their peril, at their 

peril — 
Walter Map. For tho' the drop may 
hollow out the dead stone, doth not 
the living skin thicken against perpet- 
ual whippings? This is the second 
grain of good counsel I ever proffered 
thee, and so cannot suffer by the rule 
of frequency. Have I sown it in salt ? 
I trust not, for before God I promise 
you the King hath many more wolves 
than he can tame in his woods of Eng- 
land, and if it suit their purpose to 
howl for the King, and you still move 
against him, you may have no less 
than to die for it ; but God and his 
free wind grant your lordship a happy 
home-return and the King's kiss of 
peace in Kent. Farewell ! I must 
follow the King. [Exit. 

Herbert. Ay, and I warrant the 

customs. Did the King 272 
Speak of the customs ? 

Becket. No ! — To die for it — 

I live to die for it, I die to live for it. 
The State will die, the Church can 

never die. 
The King 's not . like to die for that 

which dies ; 
But I must die for that which never 

dies. 
It will be so — my visions in the Lord — 
It must be so, my friend ! the wolves 

of England 
Must murder her one shepherd, that 

the sheep 280 

May feed in peace. False figure, Map 

would say. 
Earth's falses are heaven's truths. 

And when my voice 
Is martyr'd mute, and this man disap- 
pears, 
That perfect trust may come again 

between us, 
And there, there, there, not here I 

shall rejoice 
To find my stray sheep back within 

the fold. 
The crowd are scattering, let us move 

away ! 
And thence to England. [Exeunt. 



ACT IV 

Scene I. — The Outskirts of the 
Bower 

Geoffrey (coming out of the wood). 
Light again ! light again ! Margery ? 
no, that's a finer thing there. How 
it glitters ! 

Eleanor (entering). Come to me, 
little one. How earnest thou hither ? 

Geoffrey. On my legs. 

Eleanor. And mighty pretty legs 
too. Thou art the prettiest child I 
ever saw. Wilt thou love me ? 10 

Geoffrey. No ; I only love mother. 

Eleanor. Ay ; and who is thy mo- 
ther? 

Geoffrey. They call her — But she 
lives secret, you see. 

Eleanor. Why? 

Geoffrey. Don't know why. 

Eleanor. Ay, but some one comes to 
see her now and then. Who is he ? 

Geoffrey. Can't tell. 20 

Eleanor. What does she call him ? 

Geoffrey. My liege. 

Eleanor. Pretty one, how earnest 
thou ? 

Geoffrey. There w T as a bit of yellow 
silk here and there, and it looked 
pretty like a glowworm, and I thought 
if I followed it I should find the fairies. 

Eleanor. I am the fairy, pretty one, 
a good fairy to thy mother. Take me 
to her. 31 

Geoffrey. There are good fairies and 
bad fairies, and sometimes she cries, 
and can't sleep sound o' nights because 
of the bad fairies. 

Eleanor. She shall cry no more ; she 
shall sleep sound enough if thou wilt 
take me to her. I am her good fairy. 

Geoffrey. But you don't look like a 
good fairy. Mother does. You are 
not pretty, like mother. 41 

Eleanor. We can't all of us be as 
pretty as thou art — (aside) little bas- 
tard ! Come, here is a golden chain I 
will give thee if thou wilt lead me to 
thy mother. 

Geoffrey. No — no gold. Mother 
says gold spoils all. Love is the only 
gold. 

Eleanor. I love thy mother, my 



854 



BECKET 



ACT IV 



pretty boy. Show me where thou 
earnest out of the wood. 52 

Geoffrey. By this tree ; but I don't 
know if I can find the way back again. 

Eleanor. Where 's the warder ? 

Geoffrey. Very bad. Somebody 
struck him. 

Eleanor. Ay ? who was that ? 

Geoffrey. Can't tell. But I heard 
say he had had a stroke, or you 'd have 
heard his horn before now. Come 
along, then ; we shall see the silk here 
and there, and I want my supper. 63 

[Exeunt. 



Scene II 

Rosamund's Bower 

Rosamund. The boy so late ; pray 
God, he be not lost ! 

I sent this Margery, and she comes not 
back ; 

I sent another, and she comes not back. 

I go myself — so many alleys, cross- 
ings, 

Paths, avenues — nay, if I lost him, 
now 

The folds have fallen from the mystery 

And left all naked, I were lost indeed. 
Enter Geoffrey and Eleanor. 

Geoffrey, the pain thou hast put me 
to ! [Seeing Eleanor. 

Ha, you ! 

How came you hither ? 

Eleanor. Your own child brought 

me hither ! 9 

Geoffrey. You said you couldn't 

trust Margery, and I watched her and 

followed her into the woods, and I lost 

her and went on and on till I found the 

light and the lady, and she says she 

can make you sleep o' nights. 
Rosamund. How dared you ? Know 
you not this bower is secret, 

Of and belonging to the King of Eng- 
land, 

More sacred than his forests for the 
chase ? 

Nay, nay, Heaven help you ; get you 
hence in haste 19 

Lest worse befall you. 

Eleanor. Child, I am mine own self 

Of and belonging to the King. The 
King 



Hath divers ofs and ons, ofs and be- 
longings, 

Almost as many as your true Mussul- 
man — 

Belongings, paramours, whom it 
pleases him 

To call his wives ; but so it chances, 
child, 

That I am his main paramour, his sul- 
tana. 

But since the fondest pair of doves 
will jar, 

Even in a cage of gold, we had words 
of late, 

And thereupon he call'd my children 
bastards. 

Do you believe that you are married 
to him ? 30 

Rosamund. I should believe it. 
Eleanor. You must not believe it, 

Because I have a wholesome medicine 
here 

Puts that belief asleep. Your answer, 
beauty ! 

Do you believe that you are married 
to him ? 
Rosamund. Geoffrey, my boy, I 

saw the ball you lost in the fork 

of the great willow over the brook. 

Go. See that you do not fall in. 

Go. 39 

Geoffrey. And leave you alone with 

the good fairy. She calls you beauty, 

but I don't like her looks. Well, you 

bid me go, and I '11 have my ball any- 
how. Shall I find you asleep when I 

come back ? 

Rosamund. Go. [Exit Geoffrey. 
Eleanor. He is easily found again. 
Do you believe it ? 

I pray you then to take my sleeping- 
draught ; 

But if you should not care to take it — 
see ! [Draws a dagger. 

What ! have I scared the red rose from 
your face 50 

Into your heart ? But this will find it 
there, 

And dig it from the root for ever. 
Rosamund. Help ! help ! 

Eleanor. They say that walls have 
ears ; but these, it seems, 

Have none ! and I have none — to pity 
thee. 
Rosamund. I do beseech you — my 
child is so young, 



SCENE II 



BECKET 



855 



So backward too ; I cannot leave him 

yet. 
I am not so happy I could not die my- 
self, 
But the child is so young. You have 

children — his ; 
And mine is the King's child ; so, if 

you love him — 
Nay, if you love him, there is great 

wrong done 60 

Somehow ; but if you do not — there 

are those 
Who say you do not love him — let me 

go 
With my young boy, and I will hide 

my face, 
Blacken and gipsyfy it; none shall 

know me ; 
The King shall never hear of me again, 
But I will beg my bread along the 

world 
With my young boy, and God will be 

our guide. 
I never meant you harm in any way. 
See, I can say no more. 
Eleanor. Will you not say you are 

not married to him ? 70 

Rosamund. Ay, madam, I can say 

it, if you will. 
Eleanor. Then is thy pretty boy a 

bastard ? 
Rosamund. No. 
Eleanor. And thou thyself a proven 

wanton ? 
Rosamund. No. 
I am none such. I never loved but 

one. 
I have heard of such that range from 

love to love, 
Like the wild beast — if you can call 

it love. 
I have heard of such — yea, even 

among those 
Who sit on thrones — I never saw any 

such, 
Never knew any such, and howso- 
ever 
You do misname me, match'd with 

any such, 80 

I am snow to mud. 

Eleanor. The more the pity then 
That thy true home — the heavens — 

cry out for thee 
Who art too pure for earth. 
Enter Fitzurse. 
Mtzurse. Give her to me. 



Eleanor. The Judas-lover of our 
passion-play 

Hath track'd us hither. 

Mtzurse. Well, why not ? I follow'd 

You and the child : he babbled all the 
way. 

Give her to me to make my honey- 
moon. 
Eleanor. Ay, as the bears love 
honey. Could you keep her 

Indungeon'd from one whisper of the 
wind, 

Dark even from a side glance of the 
moon, 90 

And oublietted in the centre — No ! 

I follow out my hate and thy revenge. 
Fitzurse. You bade me take revenge 
another way — 

To bring her to the dust. — Come with 
me, love, 

And I will love thee. — Madam, let 
her live. 

I have a far-off burrow where the King 

Would miss her and for ever. 
Eleanor. How sayst thou, sweet- 
heart ? 

Wilt thou go with him ? he will marry 
thee. 
Rosamund. Give me the poison ; set 
me free of him ! 

[Eleanor offers the vial. 

No, no ! I will not have it. 

Eleanor. Then this other, 

The wiser choice, because my sleep- 
ing-draught IOI 

May bloat thy beauty out of shape, 
and make 

Thy body loathsome even to thy 
child ; 

While this but leaves thee with a bro- 
ken heart, 

A doll-face blanch'd and bloodless, 
over which 

If pretty Geoffrey do not break his own, 

It must be broken for him. 
Rosamund. O, I see now 

Your purpose is to fright me — a 
troubadour, 

You play with words. You had 
never used so many, 

Not if you meant it, I am sure. The 
child — no 

No — mercy ! No ! ( Kn eels. ) 

Eleanor. Play ! — that bosom never 

Heaved under the King's hand with 
such true passion 



8 S 6 



BECKET 



ACT IV 






As at this loveless knife that stirs the 

riot, 
Which it will quench in blood ! Slave, 

if he love thee, 
Thy life is worth the wrestle for it. 

Arise, 
And dash thyself against me that I 

may slay thee ! 
The worm ! shall I let her go ? But 

ha ! what 's here ? 
By very God, the cross I gave the 

King ! 
His village darling in some lewd 

caress 
Has wheedled it off the King's neck to 

her own. 120 

By thy leave, beauty. Ay, the same ! 

I warrant 
Thou hast sworn on this my cross a 

hundred times 
Never to leave him — and that merits 

death, 
False oath on holy cross — for thou 

must leave him 
To-day, but not quite yet. My good 

Fitzurse, 
The running down the chase is kind- 
lier sport 
Even than the death. Who knows 

but that thy lover 
May plead so pitifully, that I may 

spare thee ? 
Come hither, man ; stand there. {To 

Kosamund.) Take thy one 

chance ; 
Catch at the last straw. Kneel to thy 

lord Fitzurse ; 130 

Crouch even because thou hatest him ; 

fawn upon him 
For thy life and thy son's. 

Rosamund {rising). I am a Clifford. 
My son a Clifford and Plantagenet. 
I am to die then, tho' there stand be- 
side thee 
One who might grapple with thy dag- 
ger, if he 
Had aught of man, or thou of woman ; 

or I 
Would bow to such a baseness as 

would make me 
Most worthy of it. Both of us will 

die, 
And I will fly with my sweet boy to 

heaven, 
And shriek to all the saints among the 

stars : 140 



1 Eleanor of Aquitaine, Eleanor of 

England ! 
Murder' d by that adulteress Eleanor, 
Whose doings are a horror to the 

east, 
A hissing in the west!' Have we 

not heard 
Raymond of Poitou, thine own uncle 

— nay, 
Geoffrey Plantagenet, thine own hus- 
band's father — 
Nay, even the accursed heathen Salad- 

deen — 
Strike ! 
I challenge thee to meet me before 

God. 
Answer me there. 

Eleanor {raising the dagger). This 

in thy bosom, fool, 150 

And after in thy bastard's ! 

Enter Becket from behind. 
Catches hold of her arm. 
Becket. Murderess ! 

{The dagger falls ; they stare at 

one another. After a pause. 
Eleanor. My lord, we know you 

proud of your fine hand, 
But having now admired it long 

enough, 
We find that it is mightier than it 

seems — 
At least mine own is frailer ; you are 

laming it. 
Becket. And lamed and maim'd to 

dislocation, better 
Than raised to take a life which Henry 

bade me 
Guard from the stroke that dooms 

thee after death 
To wail in deathless flame. 

Eleanor. Nor you nor I 

Have now to learn, my lord, that our 

good Henry 160 

Says many a thing in sudden heats 

which he 
Gainsays by next sunrising — often 

ready 
To tear himself for having said as 

much. 
My lord, Fitzurse — 

Becket. He too ! what dost thou 

here ? 
Dares the bear slouch into the lion's 

den? 
One downward plunge of his paw 

would rend away 



SCENE II 



BECKET 



857 




Ellen Terry as Rosamund 



Eyesight and manhood, life itself, 

from thee. 
Go, lest I blast thee with anathema, 
And make thee a world's horror. 

Fitzurse. My lord, I shall 

Remember this. 

Becket. I do remember thee ; 

Lest I remember thee to the lion, go. 
[Exit Fitzurse. 
Take up your dagger; put it in the 
sheath. 172 

Eleanor. Might not your courtesy 
stoop to hand it me ? 
But crowns must bow when mitres sit 
so high. 



Well — well — too costly to be left or 
lost. [Picks up the dagger. 

I had it from an Arab soldan, who, 

When I was there in Antioch, mar- 
vell'd at 

Our unfamiliar beauties of the 
west ; 

But wonder' d more at my much con- 
stancy 

To the monk-king, Louis, our former 
burthen, 180 

From whom, as being too kin, you 
know, my lord, 

God's grace aud Holy Church deli verd 



s 5 s 



BECKET 



ACT IV 



I think, time given, I could have 

talk'd him out of 
His ten wives into one. Look at the 

hilt. 
What excellent workmanship ! In our 

poor west 
We cannot do it so well. 

Becket. We can do worse. 

Madam, I saw your dagger at her 

throat ; 
I heard your savage cry. 

Eleanor. Well acted, was it ? 

A comedy meant to seem a tragedy — 
A feint, a farce. My honest lord, you 

are known 190 

Thro' all the courts of Christendom as 

one 
That mars a cause with over vio- 
lence. 
You have wrong'd Fitzurse. I speak 

not of myself. 
We thought to scare this minion of 

the King 
Back from her churchless commerce 

with the King 
To the fond arms of her first love, 

Fitzurse, 
Who swore to marry her. You have 

spoilt the farce. 
My savage cry ? Why, she — she — 

when I strove 
To work against her license for her 

good, 
Bark'd out at me such monstrous 

charges that 200 

The King himself, for love of his own 

sons, 
If hearing, would have spurn'd her; 

whereupon 
I menaced her with this, as when we 

threaten 
A yelper with a stick. Nay, I deny not 
That I Avas somewhat anger d. Do 

you hear me ? 
Believe or no, I care not. You have 

lost 
The ear of the King. I have it. — My 

lord paramount, 
Our great High-priest, will not your 

Holiness 
Vouchsafe a gracious answer to your 

Queen ? 
Becket. Rosamund hath not answer'd 

you one word ; 210 

Madam, I will not answer you one 

word. 



Daughter, the world hath trick'd thee. 
Leave it, daughter ; 

Come thou with me to Godstow nun- 
nery, 

And live what may be left thee of a 
life 

Saved as by miracle alone with 
Him 

Who gave it. 

Re-enter Geoffrey. 

Geoffrey. Mother, you told me a 
great fib ; it was n't in the willow. 
Becket. Follow us, my son, and we 

will find it for thee — 
Or something manlier. 220 

[Exeunt Becket, Rosamund, and 

Geoffrey. 
Eleanor. The world hath trick'd her 

— that 's the King ; if so, 
There was the farce, the feint — not 

mine. And yet 
I am all but sure my dagger was a 

feint 
Till the worm turn'd — not life shot 

up in blood, 
But death drawn in ; — {looking at the 

vial) this was no feint, then ? 

no. 
But can I swear to that, had she but 

given 
Plain answer to plain query ? nay, me- 

thinks 
Had she but bowed herself to meet 

the wave 
Of humiliation, worshipt whom she 

loathed, 
I should have let her be, scorn' d her too 

much 230 

To harm her. Henry — Becket tells 

him this — 
To take my life might lose him Aqui- 

taine. 
Too politic for that. Imprison me ? 
No, for it came to nothing — only a 

feint. 
Did she not tell me I was playing on 

her? 
I'll swear to mine own self it was a 

feint. 
Why should I swear, Eleanor, who am, 

or was, 
A sovereign power ? The King plucks 

out their eyes 
Who anger him, and shall not I, the 

Queen, 



SCENE I 



BECKET 



859 



Tear out her heart — kill, kill with 

knife or venom 240 

One of his slanderous harlots ? ' None 

of such ? ' 
I love her none the more. Tut, the 

chance gone, 
She lives — but not for him ; one 

point is gain'd. 
O, I that thro' the Pope divorced King 

Louis, 
Scorning his monkery, — I that wedded 

Henry, 
Honoring his manhood — will he not 

mock at me, 
The jealous fool balk'd of her will — 

with him f 
But he and he must never meet again. 
Reginald Fitzurse ! 

Re-enter Fitzurse. 
Mtzurse. Here, Madam, at your 

pleasure. 
Eleanor. My pleasure is to have a 

man about me. 250 

Why did you slink away so like a 

cur ? 
Fitzurse. Madam, I am as much 

man as the King. 
Madam, I fear Church-censures like 

your King. 
Eleanor. He grovels to the Church 

when he's black-blooded, 
But kinglike fought the proud arch- 
bishop, — kinglike 
Defied the Pope, and, like his kingly 

sires, 
The Normans, striving still to break or 

bind 
The spiritual giant with our island 

laws 
And customs, made me for the mo- 
ment proud 
Even of that stale Church-bond which 

link'd me with him 260 

To bear him kingly sons. I am not so 

sure 
But that I love him still. Thou as 

much man ! 
No more of that; we will to France 

and be 
Beforehand with the King, and brew 

from out 
This Godstow-Becket intermeddling 

such 
A strong hate-philtre as may madden 

him — madden 
Against his priest beyond all hellebore. 



ACT V 

Scene I. — Castle in Normandy. 
King's Chamber 

Henry, Roger of York, TFoliot, 
Jocelyn of Salisbury. 

Roger of York. Nay, nay, my liege, 

He rides abroad with armed follow- 
ers, 

Hath broken all his promises to thy- 
self, 

Cursed and anathematized us right and 
left, 

Stirr'd up a party there against your 
son — 
Henry. Roger of York, you always 
hated him, 

Even when you both were boys at 
Theobald's. 
Roger of York. I always hated 
boundless arrogance. 

In mine own cause I strove against 
him there, 

And in thy cause I strive against him 
now. 10 

Henry. I cannot think he moves 
against my son, 

Knowing right well with what a ten- 
derness 

He loved my son. 

Roger of York. Before you made 
him king. 

But Becket ever moves against a king. 

The Church is all — the crime to be a 
king. 

We trust your Royal Grace, lord of 
more land 

Than any crown in Europe, will not 
yield 

To lay your neck beneath your citi- 
zen's heel. 
Henry. Not to a Gregory of my 

throning ! No. 
Foliot. My royal liege, in aiming at 
your love, 20 

It may be sometimes I have overshot 

My duties to our Holy Mother Church, 

Tho' all the world allows I fall no. 
inch 

Behind this Becket, rather go beyond 

In scourgings, macerations, morti ly- 
ings, 

Fasts, disciplines that clear the spirit 
ual eye, 



86o 



BECKET 



ACT V 



Let 



And break the soul from earth. 

all that be. 
I boast not ; but you know thro' all 

this quarrel 
I still have cleaved to the crown, in 

hope the crown 
Would cleave to me that but obey'd 

the crown, 30 

Crowning your son; for which our 

loyal service, 
And since we likewise swore to obey 

the customs, 
York and myself, and our good Salis- 
bury here, 
Are push'd from out communion of 

the Church. 
Jocelyn of Salisbury. Becket hath 

trodden on us like worms, my 

liege, 
Trodden one half dead ; one half, but 

half alive, 
Cries to the King. 
Henry (aside). Take care o' thyself, 

O King ! 
Jocelyn of Salisbury. Being so 

crush' d and so humiliated 
We scarcely dare to bless the food we 

eat 
Because of Becket. 
Henry. What would ye have me do ? 
Roger of York. Summon your bar- 
ons ; take their counsel ; yet 41 
I know — could swear — as long as 

Becket breathes, 
Your Grace will never have one quiet 

hour. 
Henry. What ? — Ay — but pray 

you do not work upon me. 
I see your drift — it maybe so — and 

yet 

You know me easily anger'd. Will 

you hence ? 
He shall absolve you — you shall have 

redress. 
I have a dizzying headache. Let me 

rest. 
I '11 call you by and by. 

[Exeunt Roger of York, Foliot, and 

Jocelyn of Salisbury. 
Would he were dead ! I have lost all 

love for him. 50 

If God would take him in some sudden 

way — 
Would he were dead ! [Lies down. 

Page (entering). My liege, the Queen 

of England. 



Henry. God's eyes! [Starting up. 

Enter Eleanor. 
Eleanor. Of England? Say of Aqui- 

taine. 
I am no Queen of England. I had 

dream' d 
I was the bride of England, and a 

queen. 
Henry. And, — while you dream'd 

you were the bride of England, — 
Stirring her baby-king against me ? 

ha! 
Eleanor. The brideless Becket is 

thy king and mine ; 
I will go live and die in Aquitaine. 
Henry. Except I clap thee into 

prison here, 60 

Lest thou shouldst play the wanton 

there again. 
Ha, you of Aquitaine ! O you of Aqui- 
taine ! 
You were but Aquitaine to Louis — no 

wife ; 
You are only Aquitaine to me — no 

wife. 
Eleanor. And why, my lord, should 

I be wife to one 
That only wedded me for Aquitaine ? 
Yet this no-wife — her six and thirty 

sail 
Of Provence blew you to your English 

throne ; 
And this no-wife has borne you four 

brave sons, 
And one of them at least is like to 

prove 70 

Bigger in our small world than thou 

art. 
Henry. Ay — 
Richard, if he be mine — I hope him 

mine. 
But thou art like enough to make him 

thine. 
Eleanor. Becket is like enough to 

make all his. 
Henry. Methought I had recover' d 

of the Becket, 
That all was planed and bevell'd 

smooth again, 
Save from some hateful cantrip of 

thine own. 
Eleanor. I will go live and die in 

Aquitaine. 
I dream'd I was the consort of a king, 
Not one whose back his priest has 

broken. 



SCENE I 



BECKET 



861 



Henry. What ! 80 

Is the end come ? You, will you crown 

my foe 
My victor in mid-battle ? I will be 
Sole master of my house. The end is 

mine. 
What game, what juggle, what dev- 
ilry are you playing ? 
Why do you thrust this Becket on me 
again ? 
Eleanor. Why? for I am true wife, 
and have my fears 
Lest Becket thrust you even from 

your throne. 
Do you know this cross, my liege ? 
Henry {turning his head). Away ! 

not I. 
Eleanor. Not even the central dia- 
mond, worth, I think, 
Half of the Antioch whence I had it. 
Henry. That ? 

Eleanor. I gave it you, and you 
your paramour ; 91 

She sends it back, as being dead to 

earth, 
So dead henceforth to you. m 

Henry. Dead ! you have murder'd 
her, 
Found out her secret bower and mur- 
der'd her. 
Eleanor. Your Becket knew the 

secret of your bower. 
Henry (calling out). Ho there ! thy 

rest of life is hopeless prison. 
Eleanor. And what would my own 
Aquitaine say to that ? 
First, free thy captive from her hope- 
less prison. 
Henry. O devil, can I free her from 

the grave ? 
Eleanor. You are too tragic ; both 
of us are players 100 

In such a comedy as our court of Pro- 
vence 
Had laugh' d at. That's a delicate 

Latin lay 
Of Walter Map: the lady holds the 

cleric 
Lovelier than any soldier, his poor 

tonsure 
A crown of Empire. Will you have 

it again ? 
{Offering the cross. He dashes it down.) 
Saint Cupid, that is too irreverent. 
Then mine once more. (Puts it on.) 
Your cleric hath your lady. 



Nay, what uncomely faces, could he 
see you! 

Foam at the mouth because King 
Thomas, lord 109 

Not only of your vassals but amours, 

Thro' chastest honor of the Decalogue 

Hath used the full authority of his 
Church 

To put her into Godstow nunnery. 
Henry. To put her into Godstow 
nunnery ! 

He dared not — liar! yet, yet I re- 
member — 

I do remember. 

He bade me put her into a nunnery — 

Into Godstow, into Hellstow, Devil- 
stow! 

The Church! the Church! 

God's eyes ! I would the Church were 

down in hell ! [Exit. 

Eleanor. Aha! 121 

Enter the four Knights. 
Mtzurse. What made the King cry 

out so furiously ? 
Eleanor. Our Becket, who will not 
absolve the bishops. 

I think ye four have cause to love this 
Becket. 
Fitzurse. I hate him for his inso- 
lence to all. 
Be Tracy. And I for all his inso- 
lence to thee. 
Be Brito. I hate him for I hate him 
is my reason, 

And yet I hate him for a hypocrite. 
Be Mormlle. I do not love him, for 
he did his best 

To break the barons, and now braves 
the King. 130 

Eleanor. Strike, then, at once, the 
King would have him — See ! 
Re-enter Henry. 
Henry. No man to love me, honor 
me, obey me! 

Sluggards and fools! 

The slave that eat my bread has kick'd 
his King ! 

The dog I cramm'd with dainties wor- 
ried me ! 

The fellow that on a lame jade came 
to court, 

A ragged cloak for saddle — he, he, he, 

To shake my throne, to push into my 
chamber — 

My bed, where even the slave is pri- 
vate — he — 



862 



BECKET 



ACT V 



I'll have her out again, he shall ab- 
solve 140 
The bishops — they but did my will 

— not you — 

Sluggards and fools, why do you 

stand and stare ? 
You are no King's men — you — you 

— you are Becket's men. 
Down with King Henry ! up with the 

Archbishop ! 
Will no man free me from this pesti- 
lent priest ? [Exit. 
[The Knights draw their swords. 
Eleanor. Are ye King's men ? I 

am King's woman, I. 
The Knights. King's men ! King's 
men! 



Scene II 

A Room in Canterbury Monastery 

Becket and John op Salisbury. 

Becket. York said so ? 
John of Salisbury. Yes : a man may 
take good counsel 
Even from his foe. 

Becket. York will say anything. 
What is he saying now ? gone to the 

King 
And taken our anathema with him. 

York! 
Can the King de-anathematize this 
York? 
John of Salisbury. Thomas, I would 
thou hadst return'd to Eng- 
land 
Like some wise prince of this world 

from his wars, 
With more of olive-branch and am- 
nesty 
For foes at home — thou hast raised 
the world against thee. 
Becket. Why, John, my kingdom is 
not of this world. 10 

John of Salisbury. If it were more 
of this world it might be 
More of the next. A policy of wise 

pardon 
Wins here as well as there. To bless 
thine enemies — 
Becket. Ay, mine, not Heaven's. 
John of Salisbury. And may there 
not be something 



Of this world's leaven in thee too, 

when crying 
On Holy Church to thunder out her 

rights 
And thine own wrong so pitilessly ? 

Ah, Thomas, 
The lightnings that we think are only 

Heaven's 
Flash sometimes out of earth against 

the heavens. 
The soldier, when he lets his whole 
self go 20 

Lost in the common good, the com- 
mon wrong, 
Strikes truest even for his own self. 

I crave 
Thy pardon — I have still thy leave 

to speak. 
Thou hast waged God's war against 

the King ; and yet 
We are self- uncertain creatures, and 

we may, 
Yea, even when we know not, mix 

our spites 
And private hates with our defence 
, of Heaven. 

Enter Edward Grim. 
Becket. Thou art but yesterday 
from Cambridge, Grim ; 
What say ye there of Becket ? 

Grim. /believe him 

The bravest in our roll of primates 

down 30 

From Austin — there are some — for 

there are men 
Of canker'd judgment everywhere — 
Becket, Who hold 

With York, with York against me. 

Grim. Well, my lord, 

A stranger monk desires access to you. 
Becket. York against Canterbury, 
York against God ! 
I am open to him. [Exit Grim. 

Enter Rosamund as a Monk. 
Rosamund. Can I speak with you 
Alone, my father ? 
Becket. Come you to confess ? 

Rosamund. Not now. 
Becket. Then speak ; this is my 

other self, 
Who, like my conscience, never lets 
me be. 
Rosamund {throwing back the coicl). 
I know him, our good John of 
Salisbury. 4° 



SCENE II 



BECKET 



863 



Becket. Breaking already from thy 

novitiate 
To plunge into this bitter world 

again — 
These wells of Marah ! I am grieved, 

my daughter. 
I thought that I had made a peace for 

thee. 
Rosamund. Small peace was mine 

in my novitiate, father. 
Thro' all closed doors a dreadful 

whisper crept 
That thou wouldst excommunicate 

the King. 
I could not eat, sleep, pray. I had 

with me 
The monk's disguise thou gavest me 

for my bower ; 
I think our abbess knew it and allow'd 

it. 50 

I fled, and found thy name a charm 

to get me 
Food, roof, and rest. I met a robber 

once ; 
I told him I was bound to see the 

archbishop : 
* Pass on/ he said, and in thy name I 

pass'd 
From house to house. In one a son 

stone-blind 
Sat by his mother's hearth. He had 

gone too far 
Into the King's own woods ; and the 

poor mother, 
Soon as she learnt I was a friend of 

thine, 
Cried out against the cruelty of the 

King. 
I said it was the King's courts, not 

the King, 60 

But she would not believe me, and 

she wish'd 
The Church were king ; she had seen 

the archbishop once, 
So mild, so kind. The people love 

thee, father. 
Becket. Alas ! when I was Chan- 
cellor to the King, 
I fear I was as cruel as the King. 
Rosamund. Cruel ? O, no — it is 

the law, not he ; 
The customs of the realm. 
Becket. The customs ! customs ! 
Rosamund. My lord, you have not 

excommunicated him ? 
O, if you have, absolve him ! 



Becket. Daughter, daughter, 

Deal not with things you know not. 

Rosamund. I know him. 

Then you have done it, and I call you 
cruel. 7 i 

John of Salisbury. No, daughter, 
you mistake our good arch- 
bishop ; 
For once in France the King had been 

so harsh, 
He thought to excommunicate him — 

Thomas, 
You could not — old affection mas- 

ter'd you, 
You falter'd into tears. 
Rosamund. God bless him for it ! 
Becket. Nay, make me not a wo- 
man, John of Salisbury, 
Nor make me traitor to my holy 

office. 
Did not a man's voice ring along the 

aisle, 
'The King is sick and almost unto 
death. ' 8a 

How could I excommunicate him 
then? 
Rosamund. And wilt thou excom- 
municate him now ? 
Becket. Daughter, my time is short, 
I shall not do it. 
And were it longer — well — I should 
not do it. 
Rosamund. Thanks in this life, and 

in the life to come! 
Becket. Get thee back to thy nun- 
nery with all haste ; 
Let this be thy last trespass. But one 

question — 
How fares thy pretty boy, the little 

Geoffrey ? 
No fever, cough, croup, sickness ? 

Rosamund. No, but saved 

From all that by our solitude. The 
plagues 90 

That smite the city spare the solitudes. 
Becket. God save him from all sick- 
ness of the soul ! 
Thee too, thy solitude among thy 

nuns, 
May that save thee ! Doth he remem- 
ber me ? 
Rosamund. I warrant him. 
Becket. He is marvellously like 

thee. 
Rosamund. Liker the King. 
Becket. No, daughter. 



S64 



BECKET 



ACT V 



Bosamund. Ay, but wait 

Till his nose rises : he will be very 

king. 
Becket. Even so ; but think not of 

the King. Farewell ! 
Bosamund. My lord, the city is full 

of armed men. 
Becket. Even so. Farewell ! 
Bosamund. I will but pass to ves- 
pers, ioo 
And breathe one prayer for my liege- 
lord the King, 
His child and mine own soul, and so 

return. 
Becket. Pray for me too; much 

need of prayer have I. 

[Rosamund kneels and goes. 
Dan John, how much we lose, we 

celibates, 
Lacking the love of woman and of 

child! 
John of Salisbury. More gain than 

loss ; for of your wives you 

shall 
Find one a slut whose fairest linen 

seems 
Foul as her dust-cloth, if she used it 

— one 
So charged with tongue that every 

thread of thought 
Is broken ere it joins — a shrew to 

boot, no 

Whose evil song far on into the night 
Thrills to the topmost tile — no hope 

but death ; 
One slow, fat, white, a burthen of the 

hearth ; 
And one that being thwarted ever 

swoons 
And weeps herself into the place of 

power ; 
And one an uxor pauperis Ibyci. 
So rare the household honey-making 

bee, 
Man's help ! but we, we have the 

Blessed Virgin 
For worship, and our Mother Church 

for bride ; 
And all the souls we saved and fa- 

ther'd here 120 

Will greet us as our babes in Para- 
dise. 
What noise was that ? she told us of 

arm'd men 
Here in the city. Will you not with- 
draw ? 



Becket. I once was out with Henry 

in the days 
When Henry loved me, and we came 

upon 
A wild-fowl sitting on her nest, so still 
I reach' d my hand and touch' d ; she 

did not stir ; 
The snow had frozen round her, and 

she sat 
Stone-dead upon a heap of ice-cold 

eggs. 
Look! how this love, this mother, 

runs thro' all 130 

The world God made — even the 

beast — the bird ! 
John of Salisbury. Ay, still a lover 

of the beast and bird ? 
But these arm'd men — will you not 

hide yourself ? 
Perchance the fierce De Brocs from 

Salt wood Castle, 
To assail our Holy Mother lest she 

brood 
Too long o'er this hard egg, the world, 

and send 
Her whole heart's heat into it, till it 

break 
Into young angels. Pray you, hide 

yourself. 
Becket. There was a little fair- 
hair' d Norman maid 
Lived in my mother's house ; if Rosa- 
mund is 140 
The world's rose, as her name imports 

her — she 
Was the world's lily. 

John of Salisbury. Ay, and what 

of her ? 
Becket. She died of leprosy. 
John of Salisbury. I know not why 
You call these old things back again, 

my lord. 
Becket. The drowning man, they 

say, remembers all 
The chances of his life, just ere he 

dies. 
John of Salisbury. Ay — but these 

arm'd men — will you drown 

yourself? 
He loses half the meed of martyrdom 
Who will be martyr when he might 

escape. 
Becket. What day of the week? 

Tuesday ? 
John of Salisbury. Tuesday, my 

lord. 150 



SCENE II 



BECKET 



865 



Becket. On a Tuesday was I born, 
and on a Tuesday 

Baptized ; and on a Tuesday did I fly 

Forth from Northampton ; on a Tues- 
day pass'd 

From England into bitter banishment ; 

On a Tuesday at Pontigny came to 
me 

The ghostly warning of my martyr- 
dom; 

On a Tuesday from mine exile I re- 
turn'd, 



And on a Tuesday — 
Tracy enters, then Fitzurse, De 
Brito, and De Morville. Monks 

following. 

— on a Tuesday — Tracy! 
(A long silence, broken by Fitzurse 
saying, contemptuously,) 
God help thee ! 
John of Salisbury {aside). How the 
good archbishop reddens ! 
He never yet could brook the note of 
scorn. 160 




1 The Mother Church of England. 
My Canterbury ' 



866 



BECKET 



ACT V 



Fitzurse. My lord, we bring a mes- 
sage from the King 
Beyond the water ; will you have it 

alone, 
Or with these listeners near you ? 
Becket. As you will. 

Fitzurse. Nay, as you will. 
Becket. Nay, as you will. 

John of Salisbury. Why, then, 

Better perhaps to speak with them 

apart. 
Let us withdraw. 

{All go out except the four Knights 

and Becket. 

Fitzurse. We are all alone with him. 

Shall I not smite him with his own 

cross- staff ? 

Be Morville. No, look ! the door is 

open : let him be. 
Fitzurse. The King condemns your 

excommunicating — 
Becket. This is no secret, but a 
public matter. 170 

In here again ! 

John of Salisbury and Monks re- 
turn. 
Now, sirs, the King's commands ! 
Fitzurse. The King beyond the 
water, thro' our voices, 
Commands you to be dutiful and leal 
To your young King on this side of 

the water, 
Not scorn him for the foibles of his 

youth. 
What! you would make his corona- 
tion void 
By cursing those who crown' d him. 
Out upon you ! 
Becket. Reginald, all men know I 
loved the prince. 
His father gave him to my care, 

and I 
Became his second father. He had 
his faults, 180 

For which I would have laid mine 

own life down 
To help him from them, since indeed 

I loved him, 
And love him next after my lord his 

father. 
Rather than dim the splendor of his 

crown 
I fain would treble and quadruple it 
With revenues, realms, and golden 

provinces 
So that were done in equity. 



Fitzurse. You have broken 

Your bond of peace, your treaty with 
the King — 

Wakening such brawls and loud dis- 
turbances 

In England, that he calls you over- 
sea 190 

To answer for it in his Norman 
courts. 
Becket. Prate not of bonds, for 
never, O, never again 

Shall the waste voice of the bond- 
breaking sea 

Divide me from the mother church of 
England, 

My Canterbury. Loud disturbances ! 

O, ay — the bells rang out even to 
deafening, 

Organ and pipe, and dulcimer, chants 
and hymns 

In all the churches, trumpets in the 
halls, 

Sobs, laughter, cries ; they spread their 
raiment down 

Before me — would have made my 
pathway flowers, 200 

Save that it was midwinter in the 
street, 

But full midsummer in those honest 
hearts. 
Fitzurse. The King commands 
you to absolve the bishops 

Whom you have excommunicated. 
Becket. I ? 

Not I, the Pope. Ask Mm for abso- 
lution. 
Fitzurse. But you advised the 

Pope. 
Becket. And so I did. 

They have but to submit. 

The Four Knights. The King com- 
mands you. 

We are all King's men. 
Becket. King's men at least should 
know 

That their own King closed with me 
last July 

That I should pass the censures of the 
Church 210 

On those that crown' d young Henry 
in this realm, 

And trampled on the rights of Canter- 
bury. 
Fitzurse. What ! dare you charge 
the King with treachery ? 

He sanction thee to excommunicate 



SCENE II 



BECKET 



867 



The prelates whom he chose to crown 

his son ! 
Becket. I spake no word of treach- 
ery, Reginald. 
But for the truth of this I make 

appeal 
To all the archbishops, bishops, pre- 
lates, barons, 
Monks, knights, five hundred, that 

were there and heard. 
Nay, you yourself were there ; you 

heard yourself. 220 

Fitzurse. I was not there. 
Becket. I saw you there. 

Fitzurse. I was not. 

Becket. You were. I never forget 

anything. 
Fitzurse. He makes the King a 

traitor, me a liar. 
How long shall we forbear him ? 
John of Salisbury (drawing Becket 

aside). O my good lord, 
Speak with them privately on this 

hereafter. 
You see they have been revelling, and 

I fear 
Are braced and brazen'd up with 

Christmas wines 
For any murderous brawl. 

Becket. And yet they prate 

Of mine, my brawls, when those that 

name themselves 
Of the King's part have broken down 

our barns, 230 

Wasted our diocese, outraged our 

tenants, 
Lifted our produce, driven our clerics 

out — 
Why they, your friends, those ruffians, 

the De Brocs, 
They stood on Dover beach to murder 

me, 
They slew my stags in mine own 

manor here, 
Mutilated, poor brute, my sumpter- 

mule, 
Plunder' d the vessel full of Gascon 

wine, 
The old King's present, carried off the 

casks, 
Kill'd half the crew, dungeon'd the 

other half 
In Pevensey Castle — 

De Mormlle. Why not rather then, 
If this be so, complain to your young 

King, 241 



Not punish of your own authority ? 
Becket. Mine enemies barr'd all 

access to the boy. 
They knew he loved me. 
Hugh, Hugh, how proudly you exalt 

your head ! 
Nay, when they seek to overturn our 

rights, 
I ask no leave of king, or mortal man, 
To set them straight again. Alone I 

do it. 
Give to the King the things that are 

the King's, 
And those of God to God. 
Fitzurse. Threats ! threats ! ye hear 

him. 250 

What ! will he excommunicate all the 

world ? 
[The Knights come round Becket. 
Be Tracy. He shall not. 
De Brito. Well, as yet — I should 

be grateful — 
He hath not excommunicated me. 
Becket. Because thou wast born ex- 
communicate. 
I never spied in thee one gleam of 

grace. 
De Brito. Your Christian's Chris- 
tian charity ! 
Becket. By Saint Denis — 

De Brito. Ay, by Saint Denis, now 

will he flame out, 
And lose his head as old Saint Denis 

did. 
Becket. Ye think to scare me from 

my loyalty 
To God and to the Holy Father. No ! 
Tho' all the swords in England flash' d 

above me 261 

Ready to fall at Henry's word or 

yours — 
Tho' all the loud-lung'd trumpets 

upon earth 
Blared from the heights of all the 

thrones of her kings, 
Blowing the world against me, I would 

stand 
Clothed with the full authority of 

Rome, 
Mail'd in the perfect panoply of faith, 
First of the foremost of their files who 

die 
For God, to people heaven in the 

great day 
When God makes up his jewels. Once 

I fled — 270 



868 



BECKET 



ACT V 



Never again, and you — I marvel at 

you — 
Ye know what is between us. Ye 

have sworn 
Yourselves my men when I was 

Chancellor — 
My vassals — and yet threaten your 

archbishop 
In his own house. 
Knights. Nothing can be between 
us 
That goes against our fealty to the 
King. 
Mtzurse. And in his name we 
charge you that ye keep 
This traitor from escaping. 

Becket. Rest you easy, 

For I am easy to keep. I shall not fly. 
Here, here, here will you find me. 

De Morville. Know you not 

You have spoken to the peril of your 
life ? 281 

Becket. As I shall speak again. 
Fitzurse, Be Tracy, and Be Brito. 
To arms ! 
[They rush out, De Morville lingers. 
Becket. De Morville, 

I had thought so well of you ; and 

even now 
You seem the least assassin of the four. 
O, do not damn yourself for company ! 
Is it too late for me to save your soul ? 
I pray you for one moment stay and 
speak. 
Be Morville. Becket, it is too late. 

[Exit. 
Becket. Is it too late ? 

Too late on earth may be too soon in 
hell. 
Knights (in the distance). Close the 
great gate — ho, there — upon 
the town ! 290 

BeckeVs Retainers. Shut the hall- 
doors ! [A pause. 
Becket. You hear them, brother 
John ; 
Why do you stand so silent, brother 
John? 
John of Salisbury. For I was mus- 
ing on an ancient saw, 
Suaviter in modo, fortiter in re ; 
Is strength less strong when hand-in- 
hand with grace ? 
Gratior in pulchro corpore virtus. 

Thomas, 
Why should you heat yourself for 
such as these ? 



Becket. Methought I answer'd mod- 
erately enough. 
John of Salisbury. As one that blows 
the coal to cool the fire. 299 

My lord, I marvel why you never lean 
On any man's advising but your own. 
Becket. Is it so, Dan John ? well, 

what should I have done ? 
John of Salisbury. You should have 
taken counsel with your friends 
Before these bandits brake into your 

presence. 
They seek — you make — occasion for 
your death. 
Becket. My counsel is already taken, 
John. 
I am prepared to die. 

John of Salisbury. We are sinners all, 
The best of all not all-prepared to die. 
Becket. God's will be done ! 
John of Salisbury. Ay, well. God's 

will be done ! 
Grim (re-entering). My lord, tlie 
knights are arming in the gar- 
den 310 
Beneath the sycamore. 
Becket. Good ! let them arm. 
Grim. And one of the De Brocs is 
with them, Robert, 
The apostate monk that was with Ran- 

dulf here. 
He knows the twists and turnings of 
the place. 
Becket. No fear ! 

Grim. No fear, my lord. 

{Crashes on the hall-doors. The 

Monks flee. 

Becket (rising). Our dovecote flown ! 

I cannot tell why monks should all be 

cowards. 

John of Salisbury. Take refuge in 

your own cathedral, Thomas. 
Becket. Do they not fight the Great 
Fiend day by day ? 
Yalor and holy life should go together. 
Why should all monks be cowards ? 

John of Salisbury. Are they so ? 

I say, take refuge in your own cathe- 
dral. 321 
Becket. Ay, but I told them I would 

wait them here. 
Grim. May they not say you dared 
not show yourself 
In your old place ? and vespers are be- 
ginning. 
[Bell rings for vespers till end of 
scene. 



SCENE III 



BECKET 



869 



You should attend the office, give them 

heart. 
They fear you slain ; they dread they 
know not what. 
Becket. Ay, monks, not men. 
Grim. I am a monk, my lord. 

Perhaps, my lord, you wrong us. 
Some would stand by you to the death. 
Becket. Your pardon. 

John of Salisbury. He said, ' Attend 

the office.' 

Becket. Attend the office ? 

Why then — the Cross! — who bears 

my Cross before me ? 331 

Methought they would have brain'd 

me with it, John. [Grim takes it. 

Grim. I ! Would that I could bear 

thy cross indeed ! 
Becket. The mitre ! 
John of Salisbury. Will you wear 
it ? — there ! 

[Becket puts on the mitre. 
Becket. The pall ! 

I go to meet my King ! 

[Puts on the pall. 

Grim. To meet the King ? 

[Crashes on the doors as they go out. 

John of Salisbury. Why do you 

move with such a stateliness ? 

Can you not hear them yonder like a 

storm, 
Battering the doors, and breaking thro' 
the walls ? 
Becket. Why do the heathen rage ? 
My two good friends, 
What matters murder' d here, or mur- 
der'd there ? 340 

And yet my dream foretold my mar- 
tyrdom 
In mine own church. It is God's will. 

Go on. 
Nay, drag me not. We must not seem 
to fly. 

Scene III 

North Transept of Canterbury 
Cathedral 

On the right hand a flight of steps lead- 
ing to the Choir, another flight on the 
left, leading to the North Aisle. 
Winter afternoon slowly darkening. 
Low thunder now and then of an ap- 
proaching storm. Monks heard 
chanting the service. Rosamund 
kneeling. 



Rosamund. O blessed saint, O glo- 
rious Benedict, — 
These arm'd men in the city, these 

fierce faces — 
Thy holy follower founded Canter- 
bury — 
Save that dear head which now is 

Canterbury, 
Save him, he saved my life, he saved 

my child, 
Save him, his blood would darken 

Henry's name ; 
Save him till all as saintly as thyself 
He miss the searching flame of purga- 
tory, 
And pass at once perfect to Paradise. 
[Noise of steps and voices in the 
cloisters. 
Hark ! Is it they ? Coming ! He is not 
here — * 10 

Not yet, thank heaven. O, save him ! 
[Goes up steps leading to choir. 
Becket {entering, forced along by John 
of Salisbury and Grim). No, I 
tell you ! 
I cannot bear a hand upon my person ; 
Why do you force me thus against my 
will? 
Grim. My lord, we force you from 

your enemies. 
Becket. As you would force a king 

from being crown'd. 
John of Salisbury. We must not 
force the crown of martyrdom. 
[Service stops. Monks come dotcn 
from the stairs that lead to the 
choir. 
Monks. Here is the great arch- 
bishop ! He lives ! he lives ! 
Die with him, and be glorified together. 
Becket. Together ? — get you back ! 

go on with the office. 
Monks. Come, then, with us to ves- 
pers. 
Becket. How can I come 20 

When you so block the entry ? Back, 

I say ! 
Go on with the office. Shall not Hea- 
ven be served 
Tho' earth's last earthquake clash'd 

the minster-bells, 
And the great deeps were broken up 

again, 
And hiss'd against the sun ? 

[Noise in the eloisti rs. 
Monks. The murderers, hark I 

Let us hide 1 let us hide ! 



870 



BECKET 



ACT V 



Becket. "What do these people fear ? 
Monks. Those arm'd men in the 

cloister. 
Becket. Be not such cravens ! 

I will go out and meet them. 

Grim and Others. Shut the doors ! 

We will not have him slain before our 

face. 

[They close the doors of the transept. 

Knocking. 

Fly, fly, my lord, before they burst 

the doors ! [Knocking. 

Becket. Why, these are our own 

monks who fo'llow'd us! 31 

And will you bolt them out, and have 

them slain ? 
Undo the doors ; the church is not a 

castle. 
Knock, and it shall be open'd. Are 

you deaf ? 
What, have I lost authority among you ? 
Stand by, make way ! 

Opens the doors. Enter Monks from 
cloister. 

Come in, my friends, come in ! 
Nay, faster, faster ! 

Monks. O, my lord archbishop, 

A score of knights all arm'd with 

swords and axes — 
To the choir, to the choir ! 

[Monks divide, part flying by the 
stairs on the right, part by those 
on the left. The rush of these last 
bears Becket along with them 
some way up the steps, where he 
is left standing alone. 
Becket. Shall I too pass to the choir, 
And die upon the patriarchal throne 
Of all my predecessors ? 

John of Salisbury . No, to the crypt! 
Twenty steps down. Stumble not in 
the darkness, 42 

Lest they should seize thee. 

Grim. To the crypt ? no — no, 

To the chapel of Saint Blaise beneath 
the roof ! 
John of Salisbury (pointing upward 
and downward). That way or 
this ! Save thyself either way. 
Becket. O, no, not either way, nor 
any way 
Save by that way which leads thro' 

night to light. 
Not twenty steps, but one. 
And fear not I should stumble in the 
darkness, 



Not tho' it be their hour, the power 

of darkness, 50 

But my hour too, the power of light 

in darkness ! 
I am not in the darkness but the light, 
Seen by the Church in heaven, the 

Church on earth — 
The power of life in death to make 

her free ! 
Enter the, four Knights. John of 
Salisbury flies to the altar of Saint 
Benedict. 

Mtzurse. Here, here, King's men! 
[Catches hold of the last flying 
Monk. 

Where is the traitor Becket ? 

Monk. I am not he! I am not he, 

my lord. 

I am not he indeed ! 

Mtzurse. Hence to the fiend ! 

[Pushes him away. 

Where is this treble traitor to the King? 

Be Tracy. Where is the archbishop, 

Thomas Becket ? 
Becket. Here. 

No traitor to the King, but Priest of 
God, 60 

Primate of England. 

[Descending into the transept. 
I am he ye seek. 
What would ye have of me ? 
Mtzurse. Your life. 

Be Tracy. Your life. 

Be Mormlle. Save that you will ab- 
solve the bishops. 
Becket. Never, — 

Except they make submission to the 

Church. 
You had my answer to that cry before. 
Be Mormlle. Why, then you are a 

dead man ; flee ! 
Becket. I will not. 

I am readier to be slain than thou to 

slay. 
Hugh, I know well thou hast but half 

a heart 
To bathe this sacred pavement with 

my blood. 
God pardon thee and these, but God's 
full curse 70 

Shatter you all to pieces if ye harm 
One of my flock ! 
Mtzurse. Was not the great gate 
shut ? 
They are thronging in to vespers — 
half the town. 



SCENE III 



BECKET 



871 




Transept of Martyrdom, Canterbury Cathedral 



We shall be overwhelm'd. Seize him 

and carry him ! 
Come with us — nay — thou art our 
prisoner — come ! 
Be Morville. Ay, make him prisoner, 
do not harm the man. 
[Fitzurse lays hold of the Arch- 
bishop's pall. 
Becket. Touch me not ! 
Be Brito. How the good priest gods 
himself ! 
He is not yet ascended to the Father. 
Fitzurse. I will not only touch, but 

drag thee hence. 
Becket. Thou art my man, thou art 
my vassal. Away ! 80 

[Flings him off till he reels, almost 
to falling. 
Be Tracy (lays hold of the pall). 
Come ; as he said, thou art our 
prisoner. 
Becket. Down ! 

[Throws him headlong. 
Fitzurse (advances with drawn 
sword). I told thee that I should 
remember thee ! 



Becket. Profligate pander ! 
Fitzurse. Do you hear that ? Strike, 
strike. 
[Strikes off the Archbishop's mitre, 
and wounds him in the forehead. 
Becket (covers his eyes with his hand). 
I do commend my cause to God, 
the Virgin, 
Saint Denis of France and Saint Al- 

phege of England, 
And all the tutelar Saints of Canterbury. 
[Grim wraps his arms about the 
Archbishop. 
Spare this defence, dear brother. 

[Tracy has arisen, and approaches, 

hesitatingly, with his sword 

raised. 

Fitzurse. Strike him, Tracy I 

Rosamund {rushing down steps from 

the choir). No, no, no, no ! 
Fitzurse. This wanton here. De 
Morville, 
Hold her away. 
Be Morville. I hold her. 
Rosamund {held back by Do Morville, 
and stretching out her arms). 



872 



BECKET 



ACT V 



Mercy, mercy, 
As you would hope for mercy ! 

Fitzurse. Strike, I say ! 

Grim. O God, O noble knights, O 

sacrilege ! 91 

Strike our archbishop in his own 

cathedral ! 
The Pope, the King, will curse you 

— the whole world 
Abhor you ; ye will die the death of 

dogs! 
Nay, nay, good Tracy. 

[Lifts his arm. 

Fitzurse. Answer not, but strike. 

Be Tracy. There is my answer then. 

[Sword falls on Grim's arm, and 

glances from it, wounding 

Becket. 

Grim. Mine arm is sever'd. 

I can no more — fight out the good 

fight — die 
Conqueror. 

[Staggers into the chapel of Saint 
Benedict. 
Becket (falling on his knees). At the 
right hand of Power — 



Power and great glory — for thy 

Church, O Lord — 
Into thy hands, O Lord — into thy 
hands ! — [Sinks prone. 

Be Brito. This last to rid thee of a 
world of brawls ! (Kills him.) 
The traitor's dead, and will arise no 
more. 102 

Fitzurse. Nay, have we still'd him ? 
What ! the great archbishop ! 
Does he breathe ? No ? 
Be Tracy. No, Reginald, he is dead. 
[Storm bursts. 1 
Be Mormlle. Will the earth gape 

and swallow us ? 
Be Brito. The deed's done — 

Away ! 

[De Brito, De Tracy, Fitzurse, 
rush out, crying ' King's men ! ' 
De Morville follows slowly. 
Flashes of lightning thro' the 
Cathedral. Rosamund seen 
kneeling by the body of Becket. 

1 A tremendous thunderstorm actually 
broke over the Cathedral as the murderers 
were leaving it. 




' Get the Count to give me his falcon 
And that will make, me well ' 



THE FALCON 



DRAMATIS PERSONS 

The Count Federigo degli Alberighi. 
Filippo, the Count 1 s foster-brother. 
The Lady Giovanna. 
Elisabetta, the Count's nurse. 



THE FALCON 

Scene. — An Italian Cottage, 
Castle and Mountains seen 
through Window 

Elisabetta discovered seated on stool 
in window, darning. The Count 
with Falcon on his hand comes down 
through the door at back. A with- 
ered wreath on the wall. 

Elisabetta. So, my lord, the Lady 
Giovanna, who hath been away so 
long, came back last night with her 
son to the castle. 



Count. Hear that, my bird ! Art thou 

not jealous of her ? 
My princess of the cloud, my plumed 

purveyor, 
My far-eyed queen of the winds — 

thou that canst soar 
Beyond the morning lark, and, how- 

soe'er 
Thy quarry wind and wheel, swoop 

down upon him 
Eagle - like, lightning - like — strike, 

make his feathers 10 

Glance in mid heaven. 

[ Oronet to chair. 
I would thou hadsl a mate I 



374 



THE FALCON 



Thy breed will die with thee, and mine 

with me ; 
I am as lone and loveless as thyself. 

[Sits in chair. 
Giovanna here ! Ay, ruffle thyself — 

be jealous ! 
Thou shouldst be jealous of her. Tho' 

I bred thee 
The full-train' d marvel of all falconry, 
And love thee and thou me, yet if Gio- 
vanna 
Be here again — No, no ! Buss me, my 

bird ! 

The stately widow has no heart for me. 

Thou art the last friend left me upon 

earth — 20 

No, no again to that ! [Bises and turns. 

My good old nurse, 

I had forgotten thou wast sitting 

there. 

Elisabetta. Ay, and forgotten thy 

foster-brother too. 
Count. Bird-babble for my falcon \ 
Let it pass. 
What art thou doing there ? 

Elisabetta. Darning, your lordship. 
We cannot flaunt it in new feathers 

now. 
Nay, if we will buy diamond neck- 
laces 
To please our lady, we must darn, my 

lord. 

This old thing here (points to necklace 

round her neck), they are but 

blue beads — my Piero, 

God rest his honest soul, he bought 

'em for me, 30 

Ay, but he knew I meant to marry 

him. 
How couldst thou do it, my son ? 
How couldst thou do it ? 
Count. She saw it at a dance, upon 
a neck 
Less lovely than her own, and long'd 
for it. 
Elisabetta. She told thee as much ? 
Count. No, no — a friend of hers. 
Elisabetta. Shame on her that she 
took it at thy hands, 
She rich enough to have bought it for 
herself ! 
Count. She would have robb'd me 

then of a great pleasure. 
Elisabetta. But hath she yet re- 

turn'd thy love ? 
Count. Not yet ! 



Elisabetta. She should return thy 

necklace then. 
Count. Ay, if 40 

She knew the giver ; but I bound the 

seller 
To silence, and I left it privily 
At Florence, in her palace. 

Elisabetta. And sold thine own 

To buy it for her. She not know ? 

She knows 
There's none such other — 

Count. Madman anywhere. 

Speak freely, tho' to call a madman 

mad 
Will hardly help to make him sane 
again. 47 

Enter Filippo. 

Mlippo. Ah, the women, the wo- 
men ! Ah, Monna Giovanna, you here 
again! you that have the face of an 
angel and the heart of a — that's too 
positive ! You that have a score of 
lovers and have not a heart for any of 
them — that 's positive-negative : you 
that have not the head of a toad, and 
not a heart like the jewel in it — that 's 
too negative ; you that have a cheek 
like a peach and a heart like the stone 
in it — that's positive again — that's 
better ! 60 

Elisabetta. Sh — sh — Filippo ! 

Eilippo (turns half round). Here 
has our master been a-glorifying and 
a- velveting and a-silking himself, and 
a-peacocking and a-spreading to catch 
her eye for a dozen year, till he has n't 
an eye left in his own tail to flourish 
among the peahens, and all along o' 
you, Monna Giovanna, all along o' you! 

Elisabetta. Sh — sh — Filippo! 
Can't you hear that you are saying be- 
hind his back what you see you are 
saying afore his face ? 73 

Count. Let him — he never spares 
me to my face ! 

Eilippo. No, my lord, I never spare 
your lordship to your lordship's face, 
nor behind your lordship's back, nor 
to right, nor to left, nor to round about 
and back to your lordship's face again, 
for I 'm honest, your lordship. 81 

Count. Come, come, Filippo, what 
is there in the larder ? 

[Elisabetta crosses to fireplace and 
puts on wood. 



THE FALCON 



875 



Filippo. Shelves and hooks, shelves 
and hooks, and when I see the shelves 
I am like to hang myself on the hooks. 
Count. No bread ? 

Half a breakfast for a rat! 
Milk? 

Three laps for a cat! 
Cheese ? 

A supper for twelve mites. 
Eggs? 

One, but addled. 
No bird ? 
Half a tit and a hern's 



90 



FiUppo. 

Count. 

FiUppo. 

Count. 

FiUppo. 

Count. 

FiUppo. 

Count. 

FiUppo. 

bill. 

Count. Let be thy jokes and thy 

jerks, man ! Anything or nothing ? 99 

FiUppo. Well, my lord, if all-but- 

nothing be anything, and one plate of 

dried prunes be all-but-nothing, then 

there is anything in your lordship's 

larder at your lordship's service, if 

your lordship care to call for it. 

Count. Good mother, happy was 
the prodigal son, 
For he return'd to the rich father ; I 
But add my poverty to thine. And 

all 
Thro' following of my fancy. Pray 

thee make 
Thy slender meal out of those scraps 
and shreds no 

Filippo spoke of. As for him and 

me, 
There sprouts a salad in the garden 

still. 
(To the Falcon.) Why didst thou miss 

thy quarry yester-even ? 
To-day, my beauty, thou must dash us 

down 
Our dinner from the skies. Away, 
Filippo ! 115 

[Exit, followed by Filippo. 
Elisabetta. I knew it would come 
to this. She has beggared him. I 
always knew it would come to this ! 
(Goes up to table as if to resume darn- 
ing, and looks out of window.) Why, as 
I live, there is Monna Giovanna com- 
ing down the hill from the castle. 
Stops and stares at our cottage. Ay, 
ay ! stare at it : it 's all you have left 
us. Shame on you ! She beautiful ! 
sleek as a miller's mouse ! Meal enough, 
meat enough, well fed ; but beautiful 
— bah ! Nay, see, why she turns down 
the path through our little vineyard, 



and I sneezed three times this morn, 
ing. Coming to visit my lord, for the 
first time in her life too! Why, 
bless the saints ! I '11 be bound to con- 
fess her love to him at last. I forgive 
her, I forgive her ! I knew it would 
come to this — I always knew it must 
come to this ! (Goes up to door during 
latter part of speech, and opens it.) 
Come in, madonna, come in. (Retires 
to front of table and curtseys as the 
Lady Giovanna enters, then moves 
chair towards the hearth.) Nay, let 
me place this chair for your lady- 
ship. I44 
[Lady Giovanna moves slowly down 
stage, then crosses to chair, look- 
ing about her, bows as she sees the 
Madonna over fireplace, then sits 
in chair. 

Lady Giovanna. Can I speak with 
the Count ? I4 6 

Elisabetta. Ay, my lady, but won't 
you speak with the old woman first, 
and tell her all about it and make her 
happy ? for I 've been on my knees 
every day for these half-dozen years 
in hope that the saints would send us 
this blessed morning ; and he always 
took you so kindly, he always took the 
world so kindly. When he was a little 
one, and I put the bitters on my breast 
to wean him, he made a wry mouth 
at it, but he took it so kindly, and your 
ladyship has given him bitters enough 
in this world, and he never made a 
wry mouth at you, he always took 
you so kindly — which is more than I 
did, my lady, more than I did — and 
he so handsome — and bless your sweet 
face, you look as beautiful this morn- 
ing as the very Madonna her own self 
— and better late than never — but 
come when they will — then or now — 
it 's all for the best, come when they 
will — they are made by the blessed 
saints — these marriages. 171 

[Raises her hands. 

Lady Giovanna. Marriages ? I shall 
never marry again ! 

Elisabetta (rises and turns). Shame 
on her then ! 

Lady Giovanna. Where is the 

Count ? 

Elisabetta. Just i^one 
To fiy his falcon. 



876 



THE FALCON 



Lady Giovanna. Call him back and 

say 
I come to breakfast with him. 

Elisabetta. Holy mother ! 

To breakfast ! O sweet saints ! one 

plate of primes ! 
"Well, madam, I will give your mes- 
sage to him. [Exit. 
Lady Giovanna. His falcon, and I 

come to ask for his falcon, 180 
The pleasure of his eyes — boast of his 

hand — 
Pride of his heart — the solace of his 

hours — 
His one companion here — nay, I have 

heard 
That, thro' his late magnificence of 

living 
And this last costly gift to mine own 

self, [Shows diamond necklace. 
He hath become so beggar'd that his 

falcon 
Even wins his dinner for him in the 

field. 
That must be talk, not truth, but, 

truth or talk, 
How can I ask for his falcon ? 

[Rises and moves as site speaks. 

O my sick boy ! 

My daily fading Florio, it is thou 190 

Hath set me this hard task, for when 

I say, 
What can I do — what can I get for 

thee? 
He answers, ' Get the Count to give 

me his falcon, 
And that will make me well.' Yet if 

I ask, 
He loves me, and he knows I know he 

loves me ! 
Will he not pray me to return his 

love — 
To marry him ? — (pause) — I can 

never marry him. 
His grandsire struck my grandsire in 

a brawl 
At Florence, and my grandsire stabb'd 

him there. 
The feud between our houses is the 

bar 200 

I cannot cross ; I dare not brave my 

brother, 
Break with my kin. My brother hates 

him, scorns 
The noblest-natured man alive, and 

I — 



Who have that reverence for him that 

I scarce 
Dare beg him to receive his diamonds 

back — 
How can I, dare I, ask him for his fal- 
con ? 

[Puts diamonds in her casket. 
Re-enter Count and Filippo. Count 
turns to Filippo. 
Count. Do what I said ; I cannot do 

it myself. 
Filippo. Why then, my lord, we are 

pauper'd out and out. 
Count. Do what I said ! 

[Advances and boics low. 

Welcome to this poor cottage, my dear 

lady. 210 

Lady Giovanna. And welcome turns 

a cottage to a palace. 
Count. 'T is long since we have met ! 
Lady Giovanna. To make amends 
I come this day to break my fast with 
you. 
Count. I am much honor'd — yes — 
[Turns to Filippo. 
Do what I told thee. Must I do it 
myself ? 
Filippo. I will, I will. {Siglis.) 
Poor fellow ! [Exit. 

Count. Lady, you bring your light 
into my cottage 
Who never deign'd to shine into my 

palace. 
My palace wanting you was but a cot- 
tage ; 
My cottage, while you grace it, is a 
palace. 220 

Lady Giovanna. In cottage or in 
palace, being still 
Beyond your fortunes, you are still the 

king 
Of courtesy and liberality. 

Count. I trust I still maintain my 
courtesy ; 
My liberality perforce is dead 
Thro' lack of means of giving. 

Lady Giovanna. Yet I come 

To ask a gift. 

[Moves toward him a little. 

Count. It will be hard, I fear, 

To find one shock upon the field when 

all 
The harvest has been carried. 

Lady Giovanna. But my boy — 
(Aside. ) No, no ! not yet — I cannot ! 
Count. Ay, how is he, 



THE FALCON 



877 






That bright inheritor of your eyes — 
your boy? 231 

Lady Giovanna. Alas, my Lord 
Federigo, he hath fallen 
Into a sickness, and it troubles me. 
Count. Sick ! is it so ? why, when 
he came last year 
To see me hawking, he was well 

enough ; 
And then I taught him all our hawk- 
ing-phrases. 
Lady Giovanna. O yes, and once 

you let him fly your falcon. 

Count. How charm' d he was! what 

wonder ? — A gallant boy, 

A noble bird, each perfect of the breed. 

Lady Giovanna (sinks in chair). 

What do you rate her at ? 
Count. My bird ? a hundred 

Gold pieces once were offer'd by the 
Duke. 241 

I had no heart to part with her for 
money. 
Lady Giovanna. No, not for money. 
[Count turns aioay and sighs. 
Wherefore do you sigh ? 
Count. I have lost a friend of late. 
Lady Giovanna. I could sigh with 
you 
For fear of losing more than friend, a 

son ; 
And if he leave me — all the rest of 

life — 
That wither'd wreath were of more 
worth to me. 

[Looking at wreath on wall. 
Count. That wither'd wreath is of 
more worth to me 
Than all the blossom, all the leaf of 

this 
New- wakening year. 

[Goes and takes down wreath. 

Lady Giovanna. And yet I never 

saw 250 

The land so rich in blossom as this 

year. 

Count {holding wreath toward her). 

Was not the year when this was 

gather'd richer ? 

Lady Giovanna. How long ago was 

that? 
Count. Alas, ten summers! 

A lady that was beautiful as day 
Sat by me at a rustic festival 
With other beauties on a mountain 
meadow, 



And she was the most beautiful of all ; 
Then but fifteen, and still as beautiful. 
The mountain flowers grew thickly 

round about. 

I made a wreath with some of these ; 

I ask'd 260 

A ribbon from her hair to bind it with ; 

I whisper'd, Let me crown you Queen 

of Beauty, 
And softly placed the chaplet on her 

head. 
A color, which has color'd all my life, 
Flush'd in her face ; then I was call'd 

away ; 
And presently all rose, and so departed. 
Ah ! she had thrown my chaplet on 

the grass, 
And there I found it. 

[Lets his hands fall, holding wreath 
despondingly . 
Lady Giovanna (after pause). How 

long since do you say ? 
Count. That was the very year be- 
fore you married. 
Lady Giovanna. When I was mar- 
ried you were at the wars. 270 
Count. Had she not thrown my 
chaplet on the grass, 
It may be I had never seen the wars. 
[Replaces wreath whence he had 
taken it. 
Lady Giovanna. Ah, but, my lord, 
there ran a rumor then 
That you were kill'd in battle. I can 

tell you 
True tears that year were shed for you 
in Florence. 
Count. It might have been as well 
for me. Unhappily 
I was but wounded by the enemy there 
And then imprison'd. 

Lady Giovanna. Happily, however, 
I see you quite recover'd of your 
wound. 
Count. No, no, not quite, madonna, 
not yet, not yet. 280 

Re-enter Filippo. 
JPilippo. My lord, a word with you. 
Count. Pray, pardon me ! 

[Lady Giovanna crosses, and passes 
behind chair and takes down 
wreath ; then goes to chair by 
table. 
Count (to Filippo). What is it, 

Filippo ? 
Filippo. Spoons, your lordship. 



878 



THE FALCON 



Count. Spoons ! 

Mlippo. Yes, my lord, for wasn't 
my lady born with a golden spoon in 
her ladyship's mouth, and we haven't 
never so much as a silver one for the 
golden lips of her ladyship. 

Count. Have we not half a score of 

silver spoons ? 
Mlippo. Half o' one, my lord ! 
Count. How half of one ? 290 

Mlippo. I trod upon him even now, 
my lord, in my hurry, and broke him. 
"Count. And the other nine ? 
Mlippo. Sold ! but shall I not mount 
with your lordship's leave to her lady- 
ship's castle, in your lordship's and her 
ladyship's name, and confer with her 
ladyship's seneschal, and so descend 
again with some of her ladyship's own 
appurtenances ? 300 

Count. Why — no, man. Only see 
your cloth be clean. 

[Exit Filippo. 
Lady Giovanna. Ay, ay, this faded 
ribbon was the mode 
In Florence ten years back. What 's 

. here ? a scroll 
Pinned to the wreath. 

My lord, you have said so much 
Of this poor wreath that I was bold 

enough 
To take it down, if but to guess what 

flowers 
Had made it ; and I find a written 

scroll 
That seems to run in rhymings. Might 
I read ? 
Count. Ay, if you will. 
Lady Giovanna. It should be if you 
can. 
{Reads.) 'Dead mountain.' Nay, for 
who could trace a hand 310 

So wild and staggering ? 

Count. This was penn'd, madonna, 
Close to the grating on a winter morn 
In the perpetual twilight of a prison, 
When he that made it, having his right 

hand 
Lamed in the battle, wrote it with his 
left. 
Lady Giovanna. O heavens ! the 
very letters seem to shake 
With cold, with pain perhaps, poor 

prisoner! Well, 
Tell me the words — or better — for I 
see 



There goes a musical score along with 
them, 

Repeat them to their music. 

Count. You can touch 

No chord in me that would not answer 
you 321 

In music. 
Lady Giovanna. That is musically 
said. 
[Count takes guitar. Lady Gio- 
vanna sits listening with wreath 
in her hand, and quietly removes 
scroll and places it on table at the 
end of the song. 
Count {sings, playing guitar). ' Dead 
mountain flowers, dead moun- 
tain-meadow flowers, 

Dearer than when you made your 
mountain gay, 

Sweeter than any violet of to-day, 

Richer than all the wide world-wealth 
of May, 

To me, tho' all your bloom has died 
away, 

You bloom again, dead mountain- 
meadow flowers.' 

Enter Elisabetta with cloth. 

Elisabetta. A word with you, my 

lord! 

Count {singing). 'O mountain 

flowers ! ' 329 

Elisabetta (louder). A word, my lord ! 

Count {sings). ' Dead flowers ! ' 

Elisabetta {louder). A word, my lord ! 

Count. I pray you pardon me again ! 

[Lady Giovanna looking at wreath. 

Count {to Elisabetta). What is it ? 

Elisabetta. My lord, we have but 

one piece of earth en- ware to serve the 

salad in to my lady, and that cracked ! 

Count. Why then, that flower'd bowl 

my ancestor 

Fetch'd from the farthest east — we 

never use it 
For fear of breakage — but this day 

has brought 
A great occasion. You can take it, 
nurse ! 338 

Elisabetta. I did take it, my lord, 
but what with my lady's coming that 
had so flurried me, and what with the 
fear of breaking it, I did break it, my 
lord ; it is broken ! 

Count. My one thing left of value 
in the world ! 



THE FALCON 



879 



No matter ! see your cloth be white as 
snow! 
Elisabetta {pointing thro' window). 
White ? I warrant thee, my son, as the 
snow yonder on the very tip-top o' 
the mountain. 

Count. And yet, to speak white 

truth, my good old mother, 350 

I have seen it like the snow on the 

moraine. 

Elisabetta. How can your lordship 

say so? There, my lord ! 

[Lays cloth. 
O my dear son, be not unkind to 

me. 
And one word more. 

{Going — returns. 
Count {touching guitar). Good ! let 

it be but one. 
Elisabetta. Hath she return'd thy 

love? 
Count. Not yet ! 

Elisabetta. And will she ? 

Count {looking at Lady Giovanna). 

I scarce believe it ! 
Elisabetta. Shame upon her then ! 

[Exit. 
Count (sings). ' Dead mountain flow- 
ers ' — 
Ah well, my nurse has broken 
The thread of my dead flowers, as she 

has broken 

My china bowl. My memory is as 

dead [Goes and replaces guitar. 

Strange that the words at home with 

me so long 360 

Should fly like bosom friends when 

needed most. 
So by your leave, if you would hear 

the rest, 
The writing. 
Lady Giovanna (holding wreath 
toward him). There I my lord, 
you are a poet, 
And can you not imagine that the 

wreath, 
Set, as you say, so lightly on her 

head, 
Fell with her motion as she rose, and 

she, 
A girl, a child, then but fifteen, how- 
ever 
Flutter' d or flatter'd by your notice 

of her, 
Was yet too bashful to return for 
it? 



Count. Was it so indeed ? was it so ? 

was it so ? 370 

[Leans forward to take wreath, and 

touches Lady Giovanna' s hand, 

which she withdraws hastily ; 

he places wreath on corner of 

chair. 

Lady Giovanna (with dignity). I did 

not say, my lord, that it was so ; 

I said you might imagine it was so. 

Enter Filippo with bowl of salad, which 

he places on table. 

Filippo. Here's a fine salad for my 

lady, for tho' we have been a soldier, 

and ridden by his lordship's side, and 

seen the red of the battle-field, yet are 

we now drill-sergeant to his lordship's 

lettuces, and profess to be great in 

green things and in garden-stuff. 379 

Lady Giovanna. I thank thee, good 

Filippo. [Exit Filippo. 

Enter Elisabetta with bird on a dish 

which she places on table. 

Elisabetta (close to table). Here's a 

fine fowl for my lady ; I had scant 

time to do him in. I hope he be not 

underdone, for we be undone in the 

doing of him. 

Lady Giovanna. I thank you, my 
good nurse. 380 

Filippo (re-entering with plate of 
prunes). And here are fine fruits for my 
lady — prunes, my lady, from the tree 
that my lord himself planted here in 
the blossom of his boyhood — and so 
I, Filippo, being, with your ladyship's 
pardon, and as your ladyship knows, 
his lordship's own foster-brother, 
would commend them to your lady- 
ship's most peculiar appreciation. 390 
[Puts plate on table. 
Elisabetta. Filippo! 
Lady Giovanna (Count leads her to 
table). Will you not eat with 
me, my lord ? 
Count. I cannot ; 

Not a morsel, not one morsel. I have 

broken 
My fast already. I will pledge you. 

Wine! 
Filippo, wine ! 

[Sits near table ; Filippo brings 
flask, fills the Count's goblet, then 
Lady* Giovanna's; Elisabetta 
stands at the back of Lady Gio- 
vanna's chair. 



88o 



THE FALCON 



Count. It is but thin and cold, 

Not like the vintage blowing round 

your castle. 
We lie too deep down in the shadow 

here. 

Your ladyship lives higher in the sun. 

[ They pledge each other and drink. 

Lady Giovanna. If I might send 

you down a flask or two 401 

Of that same vintage ? There is iron 

in it. 
It has been much commended as a 

medicine. 
I give it my sick son, and if you be 
Not quite recover'd of your wound, 

the wine 
Might help you. None has ever told 

me yet 
The story of your battle and your 
wound. 
Filippo {coming forward). I can tell 
you, my lady, I can tell you. 409 

Elisabetta. Filippo! will you take 
the word out of your master's own 
mouth ? 

Filippo. Was it there to take ? Put 
it there, my lord. 

Count. Giovanna, my dear lady, in 
this same battle 
We had been beaten — they were ten 

to one. 
The trumpets of the fight had echo'd 

down, 
I and Filippo here had done our best, 
And, having passed unwounded from 

the field, 
Were seated sadly at a fountain side, 
Our horses grazing by us, when a 
troop, 421 

Laden with booty and with a flag of 

ours 
Ta'en in the fight — 
Filippo. Ay, but we fought for it 
back, 
Andkill'd — 
Elisabetta. Filippo! 
Count. A troop of horse — 

Filippo. Five hundred ! 

Count. Say fifty ! 
Filippo. And we kill'd 'em by the 

score ! 
Elisabetta. Filippo ! 
Filippo. Well, well, well ! I bite 

my tongue. 
Count. We may have left their fifty 
less by five. 



However, staying not to count how 

many, 
But anger'd at their flaunting of our 

flag, 
We mounted, and we dash'd into the 
heart of 'em. 43 o 

I wore the lady's chaplet round my 

neck ; 
It served me for a^ blessed rosary. 
I am sure that more than one brave 

fellow owed 
His death to the charm in it. 

Elisabetta. Hear that, my lady ! 

Count. I cannot tell how long we 
strove before 
Our horses fell beneath us ; down we 

went 
Crush'd, hack'd at, trampled under- 
foot. The night, 
As some cold-manner'd friend may 

strangely do us 
The truest service, had a touch of 

frost 
That help'd to check the flowing of 
the blood. 44 o 

My last sight ere I swoon'd was one 

sweet face 
Crown'd with the wreath. That 

seem'd to come and go. 
They left us there for dead ! 

Elisabetta. Hear that, my lady ! 

Filippo. Ay, and I left two fingers 
there for dead. See, my lady ! (Show- 
ing his hand.) 
Lady Giovanna. I see, Filippo ! 
Filippo. And I have small hope of 
the gentleman gout in my great toe. 
Lady Giovanna. And why, Filippo ? 
[Smiling absently. 
Filippo. I left him there for dead 
too. 452 

Elisabetta. She smiles at him — how 
hard the woman is ! 
My lady, if your ladyship were not 
Too proud to look upon the garland, 

you 
Would find it stain'd — 

Count (rising). Silence, Elisabetta ! 
Elisabetta. Stain'd with the blood 
of the best heart that ever 
Beat for one woman. 

[Points to wreath on chair. 
Lady Giovanna (rising slowly). I 

can eat no more ! 
Count. You have but trifled with 
our homely salad, 



THE FALCON 



881 



But dallied with a single lettuce-leaf ; 
Not eaten anything. 
Lady Giovanna. Nay, nay, I can- 
not. 461 
You know, my lord, I told you I was 

troubled. 
My one child Florio lying still so sick, 
I bound myself, and by a solemn vow, 
That I would touch no flesh till he 

were well 
Here, or else well in heaven, where all 
is well. 
[Elisabetta clears table of bird and 
salad: Filippo snatches up the 
plate of prunes and holds them to 
Lady Giovanna. 
Filippo. But the prunes, my lady, 
from the tree that his lordship — 
Lady Giovanna. Not now, Filippo. 
My lord Federigo, 
Can I not speak with you once more 
alone ? 470 

Count. You hear, Filippo ? My 

good fellow, go. 
Filippo. But the prunes that your 
lordship — 
Elisabetta. Filippo ! 
Count. Ay, prune our company of 

thine own, and go ! 
Elisabetta. Filippo ! 
Filippo {turning). Well, well ! the 
women ! [Exit. 

Count. And thou too leave us, my 
dear nurse, alone. 479 

Elisabetta (folding up cloth and 
going). And me too ! Ay, the dear 
nurse will leave you alone; but, for 
all that, she that has eaten the yolk is 
scarce like to swallow the shell. 

[Turns and curtseys stiffly to Lady 
Giovanna, then exit. Lady Gio- 
vanna takes out diamond neck- 
lace from casket. 
Lady Giovanna. I have anger' d 
your good nurse ; these old- 
world servants 
Are all but flesh and blood with those 

they serve. 
My lord, I have a present to return you, 
And afterwards a boon to crave of 
you. 
Count. No, my most honor'd and 
long-worshipt lady, 
Poor Federigo degli Alberighi 490 

Takes nothing in return from you 
except 



Return of his affection — can deny 
Nothing to you that you require of 
him. 
Lady Giovanna. Then I require you 
to take back your diamonds — 
[Offering necklace. 
I doubt not they are yours. No other 

heart 
Of such magnificence in courtesy 
Beats — out of heaven. They seem'd 

too rich a prize 
To trust with any messenger. I came 
In person to return them. 

[Count draws back. 

If the phrase 

'Return' displease you, we will say — 

exchange them. 500 

For your — for your — 

Count (takes a step toward her and 
then back). For mine — and 
what of mine ? 
Lady Giovanna. Well, shall we say 
this wreath and your sweet 
rhymes ? 
Count. But have you ever worn 

my diamonds ? 
Lady Giovanna. No ! 
For that would seem accepting of your 

love. 
I cannot brave my brother — but be 

sure 
That I shall never marry again, my 
lord! 
Count. Sure ? 
Lady Giovanna. Yes ! 
Count. Is this your brother's order? 
Lady Giovanna. No ! 

For he would marry me to the richest 

man 
In Florence ; but I think you know 

the saying — 

'Better a man without riches, than 

riches without a man.' 510 

Count. A noble saying — and acted 

on would yield 

A nobler breed of men and women. 

Lady, 
I find you a shrewd bargainer. The 

wreath 
That once you wore outvalues twenty- 
fold 
The diamonds that you never deign d 

to wear. 
But lay them there for a moment I 

[Points to table. Lady Giovanna 
places necklace on table. 



882 



THE FALCON 



And be you 
Gracious enough to let me know the 

boon 
By granting which, if aught be mine 

to grant, 
I should be made more happy than I 

hoped 
Ever to be again. 
Lady Giovanna. Then keep your 

wreath, 520 

But you will find me a shrewd bar- 
gainer still. 
I cannot keep your diamonds, for the 

gift 
I ask for, to my mind and at this pre- 
sent 
Outvalues all the jewels upon earth. 
Count. It should be love that thus 

outvalues all. 
You speak like love, and yet you love 

me not. 
I have nothing in this world but love 

for you. 
Lady Giovanna. Love ? it is love, 

love for my dying boy, 
Moves me to ask it of you. 

Count. What ? my time ? 

Is it my time ? Well, I can give my 

time 530 

To him that is a part of you, your 

son. 
Shall I return to the castle with you ? 

Shall I 
Sit by him, read to him, tell him my 

tales, 
Sing him my songs ? You know that 

I can touch 
The gittern to some purpose. 

Lady Giovanna. No, not that ! 

I thank you heartily for that — and 

you, 
I doubt not from your nobleness of 

nature, 
Will pardon me for asking what I ask. 
Count. Giovanna, dear Giovanna, 

I that once 
The wildest of the random youth of 

Florence 54 o 

Before I saw you — all my nobleness 
Of nature, as you deign to call it, 

draws 
From you, and from my constancy to 

you. 
No more, but speak. 

Lady Giovanna. I will. You know 

sick people, 



More specially sick children, have 
strange fancies, 

Strange longings ; and to thwart them 
in their mood 

May work them grievous harm at 
times, may even 

Hasten their end. I would you had a 
son ! 

It might be easier then for you to 
make 

Allowance for a mother — her — who 
comes 550 

To rob you of your one delight on 
earth. 

How often has my sick boy yearn' d 
for this ! 

I have put him off as often ; but to- 
day 

I dared not — so much weaker, so 
much worse 

For last day's journey. I was weep- 
ing for him ; 

He gave me his hand : ' I should be 
well again 

If the good Count would give me — ' 
Count. Give me — 

Lady Giovanna. ' His falcon/ 

Count (starts back). My falcon ! 
Lady Giovanna. Yes, your falcon, 

Federigo ! 
Count. Alas, I cannot ! 
Lady Giovanna. Cannot ? Even so ! 

I fear'd as much. O this unhappy 
world ! 561 

How shall I break it to him ? how 
shall I tell him ? 

The boy may die ; more blessed were 
the rags 

Of some pale beggar-woman seeking 
alms 

For her sick son, if he were like to 
live, 

Than all my childless wealth, if mine 
must die. 

I was to blame — the love you said 
you bore me — 

My lord, we thank you for your enter- 
tainment, 

[ With a stately curtsey. 

And so return — Heaven help him ! — 
to our son. {Turns. 

Count (rushes forward). Stay, stay, 
I am most unlucky, most un- 
happy ! 570 

You never had look'd in on me be- 
fore, 



THE FALCON 



883 



And when you came and dipt your 

sovereign head 
Thro' these low doors, you ask'd to 

eat with me. 
I had but emptiness to set before 

you, 
No, not a draught of milk, no, not an 

egg, 
Nothing but my brave bird, my noble 

falcon, 
My comrade of the house, and of the 

field. 
She had to die for it — she died for 

you. 
Perhaps I thought with those of old, 

the nobler 
The victim was, the more acceptable 
Might be the sacrifice. I fear you 

scarce 58 r 

Will thank me for your entertainment 

now. 
Lady Giovanna {returning). I bear 

with him no longer. 
Count. No, madonna ! 

And he will have to bear with it as he 

may. 
Lady Giovanna. I break with him 

for ever ! 
Count. Yes, Giovanna, 
But he will keep his love to you for 

ever! 
Lady Giovanna. You ? you ? not 

you ! My brother ! my hard bro- 
ther ! 
O Federigo, Federigo, I love you ! 
Spite of ten thousand brothers, Fede- 
rigo ! [Falls at Ms feet. 
Count {impetuously). Why, then the 

dying of my noble bird 590 



Hath served me better than her living 
— then 

[Takes diamonds from table. 
These diamonds are both yours and 

mine — have won 
Their value again — beyond all mar- 
kets — there, 
I lay them for the first time round your 
neck. 
[Lays necklace round her neck. 
And then this chaplet — No more 

feuds, but peace, 
Peace and conciliation ! I will make 
Your brother love me. See, I tear 

away 
The leaves were darken' d by the bat- 
tle— 
[Pulls leaves off and throws them 
down. 

— crown you 
Again with the same crown my Queen 
of Beauty. 

[Places wreath on her head. 

Rise — I could almost think that the 

dread garland 600 

Will break once more into the living 

blossom. 
Nay, nay, I pray you rise. 

[Baises her with both hands. 

We two together 

Will help to heal your son — your son 

and mine — 
We shall do it — we shall do it ! 

[Embraces her. 
The purpose of my being is accom- 
plished, 
And I am happy ! 
Lady Giovanna. And I too, Fede- 
rigo. 



THE CUP 



A TRAGEDY 



DRAMATIS PERSONS 



Galatians 



Romans 



'Synorix, an ex-Tetrarch. 
Sinn at us, a Tetrarch. 
Attendant. 
Boy. 

Antonius, a Roman General. 
Publius. 



Phcebe. 

Camma, wife of Sinnatus, afterwards 
Priestess in the Temple oj Artemis. 
Maid. 
Nobleman. 



THE CUP 

ACT I 

Scene I. — Distant View of a City 
of Galatia. 

As the curtain rises, Priestesses are 
heard singing in the Temple. Boy 
discovered on a pathway among Rocks, 
picking grapes. A party of Roman 
Soldiers, guarding a prisoner in 
chains, come down the pathway and 
exeunt. 

Enter Synorix (looking round). Sing- 
ing ceases. 
Synorix. Pine, beech and plane, oak, 

walnut, apricot, 
Vine, cypress, poplar, myrtle, bower - 

ing-in 
The city where she dwells. She past 

me here 
Three years ago when I was flying 

from 
My tetrarchy to Rome. I almost 

touch'd her — 
A maiden slowly moving on to music 
Among her maidens to this temple — 

O Gods ! 
She is my fate — else wherefore has 

my fate 
Brought me again to her own city ? — 

married 
Since — married Sinnatus, the -tetrarch 

here — 10 

But if he be conspirator, Rome will 

chain 
Or slay him. I may trust to gain her 

then 
When I shall have my tetrarchy re- 
stored 



By Rome, our mistress, grateful that 

I show'd her 
The weakness and the dissonance of 

our clans, 
And how to crush them easily. 

Wretched race ! 
And once I wish'd to scourge them to 

the bones. 
But in this narrow breathing-time of 

life 
Is vengeance for its own sake worth 

the while, 
If once our ends are gain'd ? and now 
this cup — 20 

I never felt such passion for a woman. 
[Brings out a cup and scroll from 
under his cloak. 
What have I written to her ? 

[Reading the scroll. 

'To the admired Camma, wife of 

Sinnatus the Tetrarch, one who years 

ago, himself an adorer of our great 

goddess Artemis, beheld you afar off 

worshipping in her temple, and loved 

you for it, sends you this cup rescued 

from the burning of one of her shrines 

in a city thro' which he past with the 

Roman army : it is the cup we use in 

our marriages. Receive it from one 

who cannot at present write himself 

other than 34 

1 A Galatian serving by force 

in the Roman Legion/ 

[Turns and looks up to Boy. 
Boy, dost thou know the house of 
Sinnatus ? 
Boy. These grapes are for the house 
of Sinnatus — 
Close to the temple. 
Synorix. Yonder ? 

Boy. Yes. 

Synorix {aside). That I 



SCENE I 



THE CUP 



885 



With all my range of women should 

yet shun 4 o 

To meet her face to face at once ! My 

"boy, 

[Boy comes dozen rocks to him. 

Take thou this letter and this cup to 

Camma, 
The wife of Sinnatus. 

Boy. Going or gone to-day 

To hunt with Sinnatus. 

Synorix. That matters not. 

Take thou this cup and leave it at her 

doors. 

[Gives the cup and scroll to the Boy. 

Boy. I will, my lord. 

[ Takes his basket of grapes and exit. 

Enter Antonius. 
Antonius {meeting the Boy as he goes 
out). 

Why, whither runs the boy ? 
Is that the cup you rescued from the 
fire? 
Synorix. I send it to the wife of 
Sinnatus, 
One half besotted in religious rites. 
You come here with your soldiers to 
enforce 50 

The long- withh olden tribute ; you 

suspect 
This Sinnatus of playing patriotism, 
Which in your sense is treason. You 

have yet 
No proof against him. Now this pious 

cup 
Is passport to their house, and open 

arms 
To him who gave it ; and once there 

I warrant 
I worm thro' all their windings. 

Antonius. If you prosper, 

Our Senate, wearied of their te- 

trarchies, 
Their quarrels with themselves, their 

spites at Rome, 
Is like enough to cancel them, and 
throne 60 

One king above them all, who shall be 

true 
To the Roman ; and from what I heard 

in Rome, 
This tributary crown may fall to 
you, 
Synorix. The king, the crown ! their 
talk in Rome ? is it so ? 

[Antonius nods. 
Well — I shall serve Galatia taking it, 



And save her from herself, and be to 

Rome 
More faithful than a Roman. 

[Turns and sees Camma coming. 
Stand aside, 
Stand aside • here she comes ! 

[Watching Camma as she enters 
with her Maid. 
Camma {to Maid). Where is he, girl ? 
Maid. You know the waterfall 

That in the summer keeps the moun- 
tain side, 70 
But after rain o'erleaps a jutting rock 
And shoots three hundred feet. 

Gamma. The stag is there ? 

Maid. Seen in the thicket at the 
bottom there 
But yester-even. 

Gamma. Good then, we will climb 
The mountain opposite and watch the 
chase. 
[They descend the rocks and exeunt. 
Synorix {watching her). {Aside). The 
bust of Juno, and the brows and 
eyes 
Of Venus ; face and form unmatcha- 
ble ! 
Antonius. Why do you look at her 

so lingeringly ? 
Synorix. To see if years have 

changed her. 
Antonius {sarcastically). Love her, 

do you ? 
Synorix. I envied Sinnatus when he 
married her. 80 

Antonius. She knows it ? Ha ! 
Synorix. She — no, nor even my 

face. 
Antonius. Nor Sinnatus either ? 
Synorix. No, nor Sinnatus. 

Antonius. Hot-blooded ! I have 
heard them say in Rome, 
That your own people cast you from 

their bounds 
For some unprincely violence to a 

woman, 
As Rome did Tarquin. 

Synorix. Well, if this were so 

I here return like Tarquin — for a 
crown. 
Antonius. And may be foiFd like 
Tarquin, if you follow 
Not the dry light of Rome's straight- 
going policy. 
But the fool-tire of love or lust, which 
well 9° 



886 



THE CUP 



ACT 1 



May make you lose yourself, may even 

drown you 
In the good regard of Rome. 

Synorix. Tut — fear me not ; 

I ever had my victories among women. 
I am most true to Rome. 

Antonius {aside). I hate the man ! 
What filthy tools our Senate works 

with! Still 
I must obey them. {Aloud.) Fare you 
well. [Going. 

Synorix. Farewell ! 
Antonius {stopping). A moment ! If 
you track this Sinnatus 
In any treason, I give you here an 
order [Produces a paper. 

To seize upon him. Let me sign it. 

{Signs it.) There — 
' Antonius, leader of the Roman Le- 
gion.' IOO 
[Hands the paper to Synorix. Goes 
up pathicay and exit. 
Synorix. Woman again ! — but I am 
wiser now. 
No rushing on the game — the net, — 
the net. 
[Shouts of ' Sinnatus ! Sinnatus ! ' 
Then horn. 
Looking off stage.'] He comes, a rough, 

bluff, simple-looking fellow. 
If we may judge the kernel by the 

husk, 
Not one to keep a woman's fealty when 
Assailed by Craft and Love. I'll join 

with him ; 
I may reap something from him — 

come upon her 
Again, perhaps, to-day — her. Who 

are with him ? 
I see no face that knows me. Shall I 

risk it ? 
I am a Roman now, they dare not 
touch me. no 

I will. 
Enter Sinnatus, Huntsmen and 
hounds. 
Fair sir, a happy day to you ! 
You reck but little of the Roman here, 
While you can take your pastime in 
the woods. 
Sinnatus. Ay, ay, why not ? What 

would you with me, man ? 
Synorix. I am a lifelong lover of the 
chase, 
And tho' a stranger fain would be al- 
low'd 



To join the hunt. 

Sinnatus. Your name ? 
Synorix. Strato, my name. 

Sinnatus. No Roman name ? 
Synorix. A Greek, my lord ; you 
know 
That we Galatians are both Greek and 
Gaul. 
[Shouts and horns in the distance. 
Sinnatus. Hillo, the stag ! {To Syn- 
orix.) What, you are ail unfur- 
nish'd ? 120 

Give him a bow and arrows — follow 
— follow. 

[Exit, followed by Huntsmen. 
Synorix. Slowly but surely — till I 
see my way. 
It is the one step in the dark beyond 
Our expectation, that amazes us. 

[Distant shouts and horns. 
Hillo! Hillo! 

[Exit Synorix. Shouts and horns. 



Scene II 

A Room in the Tetrarch's House 

Frescoed figures on the walls. Evening. 
Moonlight outside. A couch with 
cushions on it. A small table with a 
flagon of icine, cups, plate of grapes, 
etc. , also the cup of Scene I. A chair 
with drapery on it. 

Camma enters, and opens curtains of 
window. 

Camma. No Sinnatus yet — and there 
the rising moon. 
[Takes up a cithern and sits on 
couch. Plays and sings. 

Moon on the field and the foam, 
Moon on the waste and the wold, 

Moon bring him home, bring him home, 
Safe from the dark and the cold, 

Home, sweet moon, bring him home, 
Home with the flock to the fold — 

Safe from the wolf — 

{Listening.) Is he coming ? I thought 

I heard 
A footstep. No, not yet. They say 

that Rome io 

Sprang from a wolf. I fear my dear 

lord mixt 



SCENE II 



THE CUP 



887 



With some conspiracy against the 

wolf. 
This mountain shepherd never dream' d 

of Rome. [Si?igs. 

Safe from the wolf to the fold — 

And that great break of precipice that 

runs 
Thro' alL the wood, where twenty 

years ago 
Huntsman and hound and deer were 

all neck-broken ! 
Nay, here he comes. 
Enter Sinnatus followed by Synorix. 
Sinnatus {angrily). I tell thee, my 
good fellow, 
My arrow struck the stag. 

Synorix. But was it so ? 

Nay, you were further off ; besides 
the wind 20 

Went with my arrow. 

Sinnatus. I am sure I struck him. 
Synorix. And I am just as sure, my 
lord, I struck him. 
(Aside.) And I may strike your game 
when you are gone. 
Camma. Come, come, we will not 
quarrel about the stag. 
I have had a weary day in watching 

you. 
Yours must have been a wearier. Sit 

and eat, 
And take a hunter's vengeance on the 
meats. 
Sinnatus. No, no — we have eaten — 

we are heated. Wine ! 
Camma. Who is our guest ? 
Sinnatus. Strato he calls himself. 
[Camma offers wine to Synorix, 
while Sinnatus helps himself. 
Sinnatus. I pledge you, Strato. 

{Brinks. 
Synorix. And I you, my lord. 

[Drinks. 
Sinnatus (seeing the cup sent to 

Camma). What 's here ? 
Camma. A strange gift sent to me 
to-day. 31 

A sacred cup saved from a blazing 

shrine 
Of our great Goddess, in some city 

where 
Antonius past. I had believed that 

Rome 
Made war upon the peoples, not the 
Gods. 



Synorix. Most like the city rose 
against Antonius, 
Whereon he fired it, and the sacred 
shrine 37 

By chance was burnt along with it. 

Sinnatus. Had you then 

No message with the cup ? 

Camma. Why, yes, see here. 

[Gives him the scroll. 
Sinnatus (reads). ' To the admired 
Camma, — beheld you afar off — loved 
you — sends you this cup — the cup 
we use in our marriages — cannot at 
present write himself other than 
' A Galatian serving by force in 

the Roman Legion.' 
Serving by force ! Were there no 

boughs to hang on, 
Rivers to drown in ? Serve by force ? 

No force 
Could make me serve by force. 

Synorix. How then, my lord ? 

The Roman is encampt without your 

city — 50 

The force of Rome a thousand- fold our 

own. 
Must all Galatia hang or drown her- 
self ? 
And you a prince and tetrarch in this 
province — 
Sinnatus. Province ! 
Synorix. Well, well, they call it so 

in Rome. 
Sinnatus (angrily). Province ! 
Synorix. A noble anger ! but An- 
tonius 
To-morrow will demand your tribute 

— you, 
Can you make war ? Have you alli- 
ances ? 
Bithynia, Pontus, Paphlagonia? 
We have had our leagues of old with 

Eastern kings. 
There is my hand — if such a league 
there be. 60 

What will you do ? 

Sinnatus. Not set myself abroach 
And run my mind out to a random 

guest 
Who join'd me in the hunt. You saw 

my hounds 
True to the scent ; and we have two- 

legg'd dogs 
Among us who can smell a true occa- 
sion, 
And when to bark and how. 



THE CUP 



ACT I 



Synorix. My good Lord Sinnatus, 
I once was at the hunting of a lion. 
Roused by the clamor of the chase he 

woke, 
Came to the front of the wood — his 

monarch mane 
Bristled about his quick ears — he 

stood there 70 

Staring upon the hunter. A score of 

dogs 
Gnaw'd at his ankles ; at the last he 

felt 
The trouble of his feet, put forth one 

paw, 
Slew four, and knew it not, and so re- 
main' d 
Staring upon the hunter. And this 

Rome 
Will crush you if you w T restle with her ; 

then, 
Save for some slight report in her own 

Senate, 
Scarce know what she has done. 

{Aside.) Would I could move him, 
Provoke him any way ! {Aloud.) The 

Lady Camma, 
Wise I am sure as she is beautiful, 80 
Will close with me that to submit at 

once 
Is better than a wholly hopeless war, 
Our gallant citizens murder' d all in 

vain, 
Son, husband, brother gash'd to death 

in vain, 
And the small state more cruelly 

trampled on 
Than had she never moved. 

Camma. Sir, I had once 

A boy who died a babe ; but were he 

living 
And grown to man and Sinnatus will'd 

it, I 
Would set him in the front rank of the 

fight 
With scarce a pang. {Rises.) Sir, if a 

state submit 90 

At once, she may be blotted out at 

once 
And swallow'd in the conqueror's 

chronicle. 
Whereas in wars of freedom and de- 
fence 
The glory and grief of battle won or 

lost 
Solders a race together — yea — tho' 

they fail, 



The names of those who fought and 

fell are like 
A bank'd-up fire that flashes out 

again 
From century to century, and at last 
May lead them on to victory — I hope 

SO — 99 

Like phantoms of the Gods. 

Sinnatus. Well spoken, wife. 

Synorix (bowing). Madam, so well 

I yield. 
Sinnatus. I should not wonder 
If Synorix, who has dwelt three years 

in Rome 
And wrought his worst against his 

native land, 
Returns with this Antonius. 

Synorix. What is Synorix ? 

Sinnatus. Galatian, and not know ? 
This Synorix 
Was tetrarch here, and tyrant also — 

did 
Dishonor to our wives. 

Synorix. Perhaps you judge him 
With feeble charity; being as you 

tell me 
Tetrarch, there might be willing wives 

enough 
To feel dishonor honor. 

Camma. Do not say so. 

I know of no such wives in all Gala- 

tia. 1 1 1 

There may be courtesans for aught I 

know 
Whose life is one dishonor. 
Enter Attendant. 
Attendant {aside). My lord, the men ! 
Sinnatus {aside). Our anti-Roman 

faction ? 
Attendant {aside). Ay, my lord. 
Synorix {overhearing). {Aside.) I 
have enough — their anti-Ro- 
man faction. 
Sinnatus {aloud). Some friends of 
mine would speak with me 
without. 
You, Strato, make good cheer till I re- 
turn. [Exit. 
Synorix. I have much to say, no 
time to say it in. 
First, lady, know myself am that Ga- 
latian 
Who sent the cup. 

Camma. I thank you from my heart. 

Synorix. Then that I serve with 

Rome to serve Galatia. 121 



SCENE II 



THE CUP 



889 



That is my secret ; keep it, or you 

sell me 
To torment and to death. 

[Coming closer. 

For your ear only — 

I love you — for your love to the 

great Goddess. 
The Romans sent me here a spy upon 

you, 
To draw you and your husband to 

your doom. 
I 'd sooner die than do it. 

[Takes out paper given him by An- 
tonius. 

This paper sign'd 
Antonius — will you take it, read it? 
there ! 
Camma (reads). ' You are to seize 

on Sinnatus, — if — ' 
Synorix (snatches paper). No more. 
What follows is for no wife's eyes. O 
Camma, 130 

Rome has a glimpse of this conspir- 
acy; 
Rome never yet hath spar'd conspira- 
tor. 
Horrible! flaying, scourging, crucify- 
ing— 
Camma. I am tender enough. Why 

do you practise on me ? 
Synorix. Why should I practise on 
you ? How you wrong me ! 
I am sure of being every way malign'd. 
Arid if you should betray me to your 
husband — 
Camma. Will you betray him by 

this order ? 
Synorix. See, 

I tear it all to pieces, never dream' d 
Of acting on it. [Tears the paper. 

Camma. I owe you thanks for ever. 
Synorix. Hath Sinnatus never told 
you of this plot ? 141 

Camma. What plot ? 
Synorix. A child's sand-castle on 
the beach 
For the next wave, — all seen, — all 

calculated, 
All known by Rome. No chance for 
Sinnatus. 
Camma. Why said you not as 

much to my brave Sinnatus ? 
Synorix. Brave — ay — too brave, 
too over-confident, 
Too like to ruin himself, and you, and 
me ! 



Who else, with this black thunderbolt 

of Rome 
Above him, would have chased the 

stag to-day 
In the full face of all the Roman camp ? 
A miracle that they let him home 
again, 151 

Not caught, maim'd, blinded him. 

[Camma shudders. 
(Aside.) I have made her tremble. 
(Aloud.) I know they mean to tor- 
ture him to death. 
I dare not tell him how I came to 

know it ; 
I durst not trust him with — my serv- 
ing Rome 
To serve Galatia ; you heard him on 

the letter. 
Not say as much ? I all but said as 

much. 
I am sure I told him that his plot was 

folly. 
I say it to you — you are wiser — 

Rome knows all, 
But you know not the savagery of 
Rome. 160 

Camma. O ! — have you power 

with Rome ? use it for him ! 
Synorix. Alas ! I have no such 
power with Rome. All that 
Lies with Antonius. 

[As if struck by a sudden thought. 
Comes over to her. 

He will pass to-morrow 
In the gray dawn before the Temple 

doors. 
You have beauty, — O, great beauty, 

— and Antonius, 
So gracious toward women, never yet 
Flung back a woman's prayer. Plead 

to him, 
I am sure you will prevail. 

Camma. Still — I should tell 

My husband. 

Synorix. Will he let you plead for 
him 
To a Roman ? 

Camma. I fear not. 
Synorix. Then do not tell him. 

Or tell him, if you will, when you re- 
turn, 171 
When you have charm'd our general 

into mercy, 
And all is safe again. O dearest lady, 
[Murmurs of "Synorix ! Synorix !' 
heard outside. 



Sgo 



THE CUP 



ACT I 



Think, — torture, — death, — and 
come. 
Camma. I will, I will. 
And I will not betray you. 
Synorix {aside, as Sinnatus enters). 
Stand apart. 

Enter Sinnatus and Attendant. 

Sinnatus. Thou art that Synorix ! 

One whom thou hast wrong'd 
Without there knew thee with Anto- 

nius. 
They howl for thee, to rend thee head 
from limb. 
Synorix. I am much malign'd. I 

thought to serve Galatia. 
Sinnatus. Serve thyself first, villain ! 
They shall not harm 180 

My guest within my house. There ! 
{points to door) there ! this door 
Opens upon the forest ! Out, begone ! 
Henceforth I am thy mortal enemy. 
Synorix. However, I thank thee 
{draws Ms sword); thou hast 
saved my life. [Exit. 

Sinnatus {to Attendant). Return and 
tell them Synorix is not here. 
[Exit Attendant. 
What did that villain Synorix say to 
you? 
Camma. Is he — that — Synorix ? 
Sinnatus. Wherefore should you 
doubt it ? 
One of the men there knew him. 

Camma. Only one, 

And he perhaps mistaken in the face. 

Sinnatus. Come, come, could he 

deny it ? What did he say ? 
Camma. What should he say ? 
Sinnatus. What should he say, my 
wife ! 191 

He should say this, that being tetrarch 

once 
His own true people cast him from 

their doors 
Like a base coin. 

Camma. Not kindly to them ? 
Sinnatus. Kindly ? 

O, the most kindly prince in all the 

world ! 
Would clap his honest citizens on the 

back, 
Bandy their own rude jests with them, 

be curious 
About the welfare of their babes, their 
wives, 



O, ay — their wives — their wives! 

* What should he say ? 
He should say nothing to my wife 

if I 200 

Were by to throttle him! He steep'd 

himself 
In all the lust of Rome. How should 

you guess 
What manner of beast it is ? 

Camma. Yet he seem'd kindly, 

And said he loathed the cruelties that 

Rome 
Wrought on her vassals. 

Sinnatus. Did he, honest man ? 

Camma. And you, that seldom 

brook the stranger here, 
Have let him hunt the stag with you 

to-day. 
Sinnatus. I warrant you now, he 

said he struck the stag. 
Camma. Why, no, he never touch' d 

upon the stag. 
Sinnatus. Why, so I said, my arrow. 

Well, to sleep. 210 

[Goes to close door. 

Camma. Nay, close not yet the door 

upon a night 
That looks half day. 

Sinnatus. True ; and my friends 

may spy him 
And slay him as he runs. 

Camma. He is gone already. 

O, look, — yon grove upon the moun- 
tain, — white 
In the sweet moon as with a lovelier 

snow ! 
But what a blotch of blackness under- 
neath ! 
Sinnatus, you remember — yea, you 

must, 
That there three years ago — the vast 

vine-bowers 
Ran to the summit of the trees, and 

dropt 
Their streamers earthward, which a 

breeze of May 220 

Took ever and anon, and open'd out 
The purple zone of hill and heaven. 

There 
You told your love; and like the 

swaying vines — 
Yea, — with our eyes, — our hearts, 

our prophet hopes 
Let in the happy distance, and that all 
But cloudless heaven which we have 

found together 



SCENE III 



THE CUP 



891 



»n our three married years ! You kiss'd 
me there 
'or the first time. Sinnatus, kiss me 
now. 
Sinnatus. First kiss. {Kisses her. ) 
There, then. You talk almost 
as if it 
Might be the last. 

Gamma. Will you not eat a little ? 
Sinnatus. No, no, we found a goat- 
herd's hut, and shared 231 
His fruits and milk. Liar ! You will 

believe 
Now that he never struck the stag — 

a brave one 
Which you shall see to-morrow. 

Gamma. I rise to-morrow 

In the gray dawn, and take this holy 

cup 
To lodge it in the shrine of Artemis. 
Sinnatus. Good ! 

Camma. If I be not back in half an 
hour, 
Come after me. 

Sinnatus. What ! is there danger ? 
Camma. Nay, 

None that I know ; 't is but a step from 

here 
To the Temple. 

Sinnatus. All my brain is full of 

sleep. 240 

Wake me before you go, I'll after 

you — 
After me now ! [Closes door and exit. 
Camma {drawing curtains). Your 
shadow. Synorix — 
His face was not malignant, and he 

said 
That men malign' d him. Shall I go ? 

Shall I go ? 
Death, torture — 
' He never yet flung back a woman's 

prayer ' — 
I go, but I will have my dagger with 
me. [Exit. 

Scene III 

Same as Scene I. Dawn 

Music and Singing in the Temple. 

Enter Synorix watchfully, after him 
Publius and Soldiers. 

Synorix. Publius ! 

Publius. Here ! 

Synorix. Do you remember what 
I told you ? 



Publius. When you cry, 'Rome, 
Rome,' to seize 
On whomsoever may be talking with 

you, 

Or man, or woman, as traitors unto 
Rome. 
Synorix. Right. Back again. How 

many of you are there ? 
Publius. Some half a score. 

[Exeunt Soldiers and Publius. 
Synorix. I have my guard about 
me. 
I need not fear the crowd that hunted 

me 
Across the woods, last night. I hardly 

gain'd 
The camp at midnight. Will she come 

to me 
Now that she knows me Synorix ? 
Not if Sinnatus 10 

Has told her all the truth about me. 

Well, 
I cannot help the mould that I was 

cast in. 
I fling all that upon my fate, my star. 
I know that I am genial, I would be 
Happy, and make all others happy, so 
They did not thwart me. Nay, she will 

not come. 
Yet if she be a true and loving wife 
She may, perchance, to save this hus- 
band. Ay ! 
See, see, my white bird stepping 

toward the snare. 
Why, now I count it all but miracle, 
That this brave heart of mine should 
shake me so, 21 

As helplessly as some unbearded boy's 
When first he meets his maiden in a 
bower. 

Enter Camma {with cup). 
The lark first takes the sunlight on his 

wing, 
But you, twin sister of the morning 

star, 
Forelead the sun. 

Camma. Where is Antonius ? 

Synorix. Not here as yet. You are 
too early for him. 

[She crosses towards Temple. 
Synorix. Nay, whither go you now ? 
Camma. To lodge this cup 

Within the holy shrine of Artemis, 
And so return. 

Synorix. To find Antonius here. 
[She goes into the Temple, he looks 
after her. 



892 



THE CUP 



ACT I 



The loveliest life that ever drew the 

light 31 

From heaven to brood upon her, and 

enrich 
Earth with her shadow ! I trust she 

will return. 
These Romans dare not violate the 

Temple. 
No, I must lure my game into the 

camp. 
A woman I could live and die for. 

What! 
Die for a woman, what new faith is 

this? 
I am not mad, not sick, not old enough 
To dote on one alone. Yes, mad for 

her, 
Camma the stately, Camma the great- 
hearted, 40 
So mad, I fear some strange and evil 

chance 
Coming upon me, for, by the Gods I 

seem 
Strange to myself ! 

Re-enter Camma. 
Camma. Where is Antonius ? 

Synorix. Where ? As I said before, 

you are still too early. 
Camma. Too early to be here alone 

with thee ; 
For whether men malign thy name, or 

no, 
It bears an evil savor among women. 
Where is Antonius? {Loud.) 

Synorix. Madam, as you know 

The camp is half a league without the 

city; 
If you will walk with me we needs 

must meet 50 

Antonius coming, or at least shall find 

him 
There in the camp. 

Camma. No, not one step with thee. 
Where is Antonius ? {Louder. ) 

Synorix {advancing towards her). 

Then for your own sake, 
Lady, I say it with all gentleness, 
And for the sake of Sinnatus your hus- 
band, 
I must compel you. 

Camma {drawing her dagger). Stay ! 

— too near is death. 
Synorix {disarming her). Is it not 

easy to disarm a woman ? 

Enter Sinnatus {seizes him from behind 

by the throat). 



Synorix {throttled and scarce audible). 
Rome ! Rome ! 

Sinnatus. Adulterous dog ! 
Synorix {stabbing him with Camma' s 

dagger). What ! will you have 

it? 
[Camma utters a cry and runs to 

Sinnatus. 
Sinnatus {falls backward) I have it 

in my heart — to the Temple — 

fly- 
For my sake — or they seize on thee. 

Remember ! 60 

Away — farewell ! [Dies. 

Camma {runs up the steps into the 

Temple, looking back). Farewell! 
Synorix {seeing her escape). The wo- 
men of the Temple drag her in. 
Publius! Publius! No, 
Antonius would not suffer me to break 
Into the sanctuary. She hath escaped. 
[Looking down at Sinnatus. 
' Adulterous dog ! ' that red-faced rage 

at me ! 
Then with one quick short stab — eter- 
nal peace. 
So end all passions. Then what use in 

passions ? 
To warm the cold bonds of our dying 

life 
And, lest we freeze in mortal apa- 
thy, 70 
Employ us, heat us, quicken us, help 

us, keep us 
From seeing us all too near that urn, 

those ashes 
Which all must be. Well used, they 

serve us well. 
I heard a saying in Egypt, that ambi- 
tion 
Is like the sea wave, which the more 

you drink 
The more you thirst — yea — drink too 

much, as men 
Have done on rafts of wreck — it 

drives you mad. 
I will be no such wreck, am no such 

gamester 
As, having won the stake, would dare 

the chance 
Of double, or losing all. The Roman 

Senate, 80 

For I have always play'd into their 

hands, 
Means me the crown. And Camma 

for my bride — 



ACT II 



THE CUP 



893 



The people love her — if I win her love, 
They too will cleave to me, as one with 

her. 
There then I rest, Rome's tributary 

king. 

[Looking down on Sinnatus. 
Why did I strike him ? — having proof 

enough 
Against the man, I surely should have 

left 
That stroke to Rome. He saved my 

life too. Did he ? 
It seem'd so. I have play'd the sudden 

fool. 
And that sets her against me — for the 

moment. 90 

Camma — well, well, I never found 

the woman 
I could not force or wheedle to my 

will. 
She will be glad at last to wear my 

crown. 
And I will make Galatia prosperous 

too, 
And we will chirp among our vines, 

and smile 
At bygone things till that {'pointing to 

Sinnatus) eternal peace. 
Rome ! Rome ! 

Enter Publius and Soldiers. 
Twice I cried Rome. Why came ye 

not before ? 
Publius. Why come we now ? Whom 

shall we seize upon? 
Synorix {pointing to the body of Sin- 
natus). The body of that dead 

traitor Sinnatus. 100 

Bear him away. 

Music and Singing in Temple. 



ACT II 

Scene. — Interior of the Temple 
op Artemis 

Small gold gates on platform in front 
of the veil before the colossal statue of 
the Goddess, and in tlie centre of the 
Temple a tripod altar, on ichich is a 
lighted lamp. Lamps {lighted) sus- 
pended between the pillars. Tripods, 
vases, garlands of flowers, etc. , about 
stage. Altar at back close to Goddess, 
with two cups. Solemn music. Priest- 
esses decorating the Temple. 



{The Chorus of Priestesses sing as 
they enter.) 

Artemis, Artemis, hear us, O Mother, hear 

us, and bless us! 
Artemis, thou that art life to the wind, to 

the wave, to the glebe, to the fire ! 
Hear thy people who praise thee ! O, help 

us from all that oppress us! 
Hear thy priestesses hymn thy glory ! O, 

yield them all their desire ! 

Priestess. Phoebe, that man from 
Synorix, who has been 
So oft to see the priestess, waits once 

more 
Before the Temple. 

Phoebe. We will let her know. 

[Signs to one of the Priestesses, who 
goes out. 
Since Camma fled from Synorix to our 

Temple, 
And for her beauty, stateliness, and 

power, 
Was chosen priestess here, have you 
not mark'd 10 

Her eyes were ever on the marble 

floor? 
To-day they are fixt and bright — they 

look straight out. 
Hath she made up her mind to marry 
him? 
Priestess. To marry him who stabb'd 
her Sinnatus ! 
You will not easily make me credit 
that. 
Phoebe. Ask her. 
Enter Camma as Priestess {in front of 
the curtains). 
Priestess. You will not marry Syn- 
orix ? 
Camma. My girl, I am the bride of 
Death, and only 
Marry the dead. 

Priestess. Not Synorix then ? 
Camma. My girl, 

At times this oracle of great Arte- 
mis 
Has no more power than other ora- 
cles 20 
To speak directly. 

Phoebe. Will you speak to him. 

The messenger from Synorix who 

waits 
Before the Temple ? 

Camma. Why not ? Let him enter. 
[Comes forward on to step by tripod 
Enter a Messenger. 



8 9 4 



THE CUP 



ACT II 



Messenger {kneels). Greeting and 
health from Synorix ! More than 
once 
You have refused his hand. When last 

I saw you, 
You all but yielded. He entreats you 

now 
For your last answer. When he struck 

at Sinnatus — 
As I have many a time declared to 

you — 
He knew not at the moment who had 

fasten' d 
About his throat — he begs you to for- 
get it 30 
As scarce his act — a random stroke. 

All else 
Was love for you ; he prays you to 
believe him. 
Camma. I pray him to believe — 

that I believe him. 
Messenger. Why, that is well. You 

mean to marry him ? 
Camma. I mean to marry him — if 

that be well. 
Messenger. This very day the Ro- 
mans crown him king 
For all his faithful services to Rome. 
He wills you then this day to marry 

him, 

And so be throned together in the sight 

Of all the people, that the world may 

know 40 

You twain are reconciled, and no more 

feuds 
Disturb our peaceful vassalage to 
Rome. 
Camma. To-day ? Too sudden. I 
will brood upon it. 
When do they crown him ? 

Messenger. Even now. 

Camma. And where ? 

Messenger. Here by your temple. 
Camma. Come once more to me 
Before the crowning, — I will answer 
you. [Exit Messenger. 

Phcebe. Great Artemis! O Camma, 
can it be well, 
Or good, or wise, that you should 

clasp a hand 

Red with the sacred blood of Sinnatus ? 

Camma. Good ! mine own dagger 

driven by Synorix found 50 

All good in the true heart of Sinnatus, 

But he and I are both Galatian- 

born ; 
And tributary sovereigns, he and I 



Might teach this Rome — from know- 
ledge of our people — 
Where to lay on her tribute — heavily 

here 
And lightly there. Might I not live 

for that, 
And drown all poor self-passion in the 

sense 
Of public good ? 
Phcebe. I am sure you will not marry 

him. 
Camma. Are you so sure ? I pray 

you wait and see. 60 

[Shouts {from the distance) 'Syn- 
orix ! Synorix ! ' 
Camma. Synorix, Synorix ! So they 

cried Sinnatus 
Not so long since — they sicken me. 

The One 
Who shifts his policy suffers some- 
thing, must 
Accuse himself, excuse himself; the 

Many 
Will feel no shame to give themselves 

the lie. 
Phcebe. Most like it was the Roman 

soldier shouted. 
Camma. Their shield -borne patriot 

of the morning star 
Hang'd at midday, their traitor of the 

dawn 
The clamor' d darling of their afternoon ! 
And that same head they would have 

play'd at ball with 70 

And kick'd it featureless — they now 

would crown ! 

[Flourish of trumpets. 
Enter a Galatian Nobleman with 
crown on a cushion. 
Noble {kneels). Greeting and health 

from Synorix. He sends you 
This diadem of the first Galatian Queen, 
That you may feed your fancy on the 

glory of it, 
And join your life this day with his, 

and wear it 
Beside him on his throne. He waits 

your answer. 
Camma. Tell him there is one 

shadow among the shadows, 
One ghost of all the ghosts — as yet so 

new, 
So strange among them — such an alien 

there, 
So much of husband in it still — that if 
The shout of Synorix and Camma sit- 
ting 81 



ACT II 



THE CUP 



895 



Upon one throne, should reach it, it 

would rise — 
He ! — He, with that red star between 

the ribs, 
And my knife there — and blast the 

king and me, 
And blanch the crowd with horror. I 

dare not, sir ! 
Throne him — and then the marriage 

— ay, and tell him 

That I accept the diadem of Galatia — 

[All are amazed. 

Yea, that ye saw me crown myself 

withal. [Puts on the crown. 

I wait him his crown'd queen. 

Noble. So will I tell him. [Exit. 
Music. Two Priestesses go up the steps 
before the shrine, draw the curtains 
on either side {discovering the God- 
dess), then open the gates and remain 
on steps, one on either side, and kneel. 
A priestess goes off and returns with 
a mil of marriage, then assists Phcebe 
to mil Camma. At the same time 
Priestesses enter and stand on either 
side of the Temple. Camma and all 
the Priestesses kneel, raise their hands 
to the Goddess, and bow down. 
[Shouts, ' Synorix ! Synorix ! ' All rise. 
Camma. Fling wide the doors, and 
let the new-made children 91 
Of our imperial mother see the show. 
[Sunlight pours through the doors. 
I have no heart to do it. (To Phoebe.) 
Look for me ! 

[Grouches. Phcebe looks out. 

[Shouts, 'Synorix! Synorix!' 

Phcebe. He climbs the throne. Hot 

blood, ambition, pride 

So bloat and redden his face — O, 

would it were 
His third last apoplexy ! O, bestial ! 
O, how unlike our goodly Sinnatus ! 
Gamma (on the ground). You wrong 
him surely ; far as the face goes 
A goodlier-looking man than Sinnatus. 
Phcebe (aside). How dare she say it ? 
I could hate her for it 100 

But that she is distracted. 

[A flourish of trumpets. 
Gamma. Is he crown'd ? 

Phcebe. Ay, there they crown him. 
[Groicd without shout, ' Synorix ! Syn- 
orix ! ' 
[A Priestess brings a box of spices 
to Camma, who throws them on 
the altar-flame. 



Gamma. Rouse the dead altar-flame, 
fling in the spices, 
Nard, cinnamon, amomum, benzoin. 
Let all the air reel into a mist of odor, 
As in the midmost heart of Paradise. 
Lay down the Lydian carpets for the 

King. 
The King should pace on purple to his 

bride, 

And music there to greet my lord the 

King. [Music. 

(To Phoebe.) Dost thou remember 

when I wedded Sinnatus ? no 

Ay, thou wast there — whether from 

maiden fears 
Or reverential love for him I loved, 
Or some strange second-sight, the mar- 
riage-cup 
Wherefrom we make libation to the 

Goddess 
So shook within my hand that the red 

wine 
Ran down the marble and lookt like 
blood, like blood. 
Phcebe. I do remember your first- 
marriage fears. 
Gamma. I have no fears at this my 
second marriage. 
See here — I stretch my hand out — 

hold it there. 
How steady it is ! 
Phoebe. Steady enough to stab him ! 
Gamma. O, hush ! O, peace ! This 
violence ill becomes 121 

The silence of our Temple. Gentle- 
ness, 
Low words best chime with this so- 
lemnity. 
Enter a procession of Priestesses aud 
Children bearing garlands and golden 
goblets, and strewing flowers. 
Enter Synorix (as King, with gold 
laurel-wreath crown and purple robes), 
followed by Antonius, Publius, 
Noblemen, Guards, and the Popular . 
Gamma. Hail, King ! 
Synorix. Hail, Queen! 

The wheel of Fate has roll'd me to the 

top. 
I would that happiness were gold, 

that I 
Might cast my largess of it to the 

crowd ! 
I would that every man made feast 

to-day. 
Beneath the shadow of our pines and 
planes ! 



8 9 6 



THE CUP 



ACT II 



For all my truer life begins to-day. 
The past is like a travell'd land now 

sunk 131 

Below the horizon — like a barren 

shore 
That grew salt weeds, but now all 

drown'd in love 
And glittering at full tide — the boun- 
teous bays 
And havens rilling with a blissful 

sea. 
Nor speak I now too mightily, being 

King 
And happy! happiest, lady, in my 

power 
To make you happy. 
Camma. Yes, sir. 

Synorix. Our Antonius, 

Our faithful friend of Rome, tho' Rome 

may set 
A free foot where she will, yet of his 

courtesy 140 

Entreats he may be present at our 

marriage. 
Camma. Let him come — a legion 

with him, if he will. 
(To Antonius.) Welcome, my lord 

Antonius, to our Temple. 
(To Synorix.) You on this side the 

altar. (To Antonius.) You on 

that. 
Call first upon the Goddess, Synorix. 
[All face the Goddess. Priestesses, 

Children, Populace, and Guards 

kneel — the others remain stand- 
ing. 
Synorix. O thou that dost inspire 

the germ with life, 
The child, a thread within the house 

of birth, 
And give him limbs, then air, and send 

him forth 
The glory of his father — thou whose 

breath 
Is balmy wind to robe our hills with 

grass, 150 

And kindle all our vales with myrtle - 

blossom, 
And roll the golden oceans of our 

grain, 
And sway the long grape-bunches of 

our vines, 
And fill all hearts with fatness and 

the lust 
Of plenty — make me happy in my 

marriage ! 



Chorus (chanting). Artemis, Arte- 
mis, hear him, Ionian Artemis ! 
Camma. O thou that slayest the 

babe within the womb 
Or in the being born, or after slayest him 
As boy or man, great Goddess, whose 

storm-voice 
Unsockets the strong oak, and rears 

his root 160 

Beyond his head, andstrows our fruits, 

and lays 
Our golden grain, and runs to sea and 

makes it 
Foam over all the fleeted wealth of 

kings 
And peoples, hear ! 
Whose arrow is the plague — whose 

quick flash splits 
The mid-sea mast, and rifts the tower 

to the rock, 
And hurls the victor's column down 

with him 
That crowns it, hear ! 
Who causest the safe earth to shudder 

and gape, 
And gulf and flatten in her closing 

chasm 170 

Domed cities, hear! 
Whose lava- torrents blast and blacken 

a province 
To a cinder, hear ! 
Whose winter- cataracts find a realm 

and leave it 
A waste of rock and ruin, hear ! I call 

thee 
To make my marriage prosper to my 

wish ! 
Chorus. Artemis, Artemis, hear her, 

Ephesian Artemis ! 
Camma. Artemis, Artemis, hear me, 

Galatian Artemis ! 
I call on our own Goddess in our own 

Temple. 
Chorus. Artemis, Artemis, hear her, 

Galatian Artemis ! 180 

[ Thunder. All rise. 

Synorix (aside). Thunder ! Ay, ay, 

the storm was drawing hither 
Across the hills when I was being 

crown'd. 
I wonder if I look as pale as she ? 
Camma. Art thou — still bent — on 

marrying ? 
Synorix. Surely — yet 

These are strange words to speak to 

Artemis. 



ACT II 



THE CUP 



897 



Cam/ma. Words are not always what 

they seem, my King. 
I will be faithful to thee till thou 

die. 
Synorix. I thank thee, Camma, — I 

thank thee. 
Camma {turning to Antonius). An- 

tonius, 
Much graced are we that our Queen 

Rome in you 189 

Deigns to look in upon our barbarisms. 

[Tarns, goes up steps to altar before 

the Goddess. Takes a cup from 

off the altar. Holds it towards 

Antonius. Antonius goes up to 

the foot of the steps opposite to 

Synorix. 
You see this cup, my lord. 

[Gives it to him. 
Antonius. Most curious! 

The many-breasted mother Artemis 
Emboss'd upon it. 

Camma. It is old, I know not 

How many hundred years. Give it 

me again. 
It is the cup belonging our own Tem- 
ple. 
[Puts it back on altar, and takes 

up the cup of Act I. Showing it 

to Antonius. 
Here is another sacred to the Goddess, 
The gift of Synorix ; and the Goddess, 

being 
For this most grateful, wills, thro' me 

her priestess, 
In honor of his gift and of our . mar- 
riage, 
That Synorix should drink from his 

own cup. 200 

Synorix. I thank thee, Camma, — I 

thank thee. 
Camma. For — my lord — 

It is our ancient custom in Galatia 
That ere two souls be knit for life 

and death, 
They two should drink together from 

one cup, 
In symbol of their married unity, 
Making libation to the Goddess. Bring 

me 
The costly wines we use in marriages. 
[They bring in a large jar of icine. 

Camma pours wine into cu p. 
{To Synorix.) See here, I rill it. {To 

Antonius.) Will you drink, my 

lord V 



Antonius. I ? Why should I ? I am 

not to be married. 
Camma. But that might bring a 
Roman blessing on us. 210 

Antonius {refusing cup). Thy par- 
don, priestess! 
Camma. Thou art in the right. 

This blessing is for Synorix and for 

me. 
See, first I make libation to the God- 
dess, 

[Makes libation. 
And now I drink. 

[Drinks and fills the cup again. 

Thy turn, Galatian King. 

Drink and drink deep — our marriage 

will be fruitful. 
Drink and drink deep, and thou wilt 
make me happy. 
[Synorix goes up to her. She hands 
him the cup. He drinks. 
Synorix. There, Camma ! I have 
almost drain'd the cup — 
A few drops left. 

Camma. Libation to the Goddess. 
[He throws the remaining drops on 
the altar and gives Camma the 
cup. 
Camma {placing the cup on the altar). 
Why, then the Goddess hears. 
[Comes down and forward to tri- 
pod. Antonius jfoZfows. 

Antonius, 
Where wast thou on that morning 
when I came 220 

To plead to thee for Sinnatus's life. 
Beside this temple half a year ago V 
Antonius. I never heard of this re- 
quest of thine. 
Synorix {coming forward hastily to 
foot of tripod steps). I sought 
him, and I could not find him. 
Pray you, 
Go on with the marriage rit< 

Camma. Antonius — 

' Camma ! ' Who spake ? 
Antonius. Not I. 

Phdlx ■'. Nor any here. 

Camma. I am all but sure that some 
one spake. Antonius, 
If you had found him plotting against 

Rome, 
Would you have tortured Sinnatus to 
death ? 
Antonius. No thought was mine of 
torture or of death. 230 



898 



THE CUP 



ACT II 



But had I found him plotting, I had 

counselled him 
To rest from vain resistance. Home is 

fated 
To rule the world. Then, if he had 

not listen'd, 
I might have sent him prisoner to 

Rome. 
Synorix. Why do you palter with 

the ceremony ? 
Go on with the marriage rites. 
Camma. They are finish' d. 

Synorix. How ! 

Camma. Thou hast drunk deep 

enough to make me happy. 
Dost thou not feel the love I bear to 

thee 
Glow thro' thy veins ? 

Synorix. The love I bear to thee 
Glows thro' my veins since first I 

look'd on thee. 540 

But wherefore slur the perfect cere- 
mony ? 
The sovereign of Galatia weds his 

Queen. 
Let all be done to the fullest in the 

sight 
Of all the Gods. 

Nay, rather than so clip 
The flowery robe of Hymen, we would 

add 
Some golden fringe of gorgeousness 

beyond 
Old use, to make the day memorial, 

when 
Synorix, first King, Camma, first 

Queen o' the Realm, 
Drew here the richest lot from Fate, 

to live 
And die together. 

This pain — what is it ? — again ? 
I had a touch of this last year — in — 

Rome. 251 

Yes, yes. {To Antonius.) Your arm 

— a moment — it will pass. 
I reel beneath the weight of utter 

joy — 
This all too happy day, crown — queen 

at once. [Staggers. 

all ye Gods — Jupiter ! — Jupiter ! 
[Falls backicard. 
Camma. Dost thou cry out upon the 

Gods of Rome ? 
Thou art Galatian-born. Our Arte- 
mis 
Has vanquish'd their Diana. 



Synorix {on the ground). I am poi- 
son' d. 
She — close the Temple door. Let her 
not fly. 
Camma {leaning on tripod). Have I 
not drunk of the same cup with 
thee? 
Synorix. Ay, by the Gods, of Rome 
and all the world, 261 

She too — she too — the bride ! the 

Queen ! and I — 
Monstrous ! I that loved her. 

Camma. I loved him. 

Synorix. O murderous mad- woman ! 
I pray you lift me 
And make me walk awhile. I have 

heard these poisons 
May be walk'd down. 

[Antonius and Publius raise him 
%ip. 

My feet are tons of lead, 
They will break in the earth — I am 

sinking — hold me — 
Let me alone. 

[They leave him ; he sinks down on 

ground. 
Too late — thought myself wise — - 
A woman's dupe ! Antonius, tell the 

Senate 
I have been most true to Rome — 
would have been true 270 

To her — if — if — [Falls as if dead. 
Camina {coming and leaning over 
him). So falls the throne of an 
hour. 
Synorix {half rising). Throne ? is it 
thou ? the Fates are throned, not 
we — 
Not guilty of ourselves — thy doom 

and mine — 
Thou — coming my way too — Camma 
— good-night. [Dies. 

Camma {upheld by weeping Priest- 
esses). Thy way ? poor worm, 
crawl down thine own black 
hole 
To the lowest hell. Antonius, is he 

there ? 
I meant thee to have follow'd — 

better thus. 
Nay, if my people must be thralls of 

Rome, 
He is gentle, tho' a Roman. 

[Sinks back into the arms of the 
Priestesses. 
Antonius. Thou art one 



ACT II 



THE CUP 



899 



With thine own people, and though a 

Roman I 280 

Forgive thee, Camma. 

Camma {raising herself). * Camma ! ' 

— why, there again 
I am most sure that some one call'd. 

O women, 
Ye will have Roman masters. I am 

glad 
I shall not see it. Did not some old 

Greek 
Say death was the chief good? He 

had my fate for it, 
Poison'd. (Sinks back again.) Have I 

the crown on ? I will go 
To meet him, crown' d ! crown'd victor 

of my will — 
On my last voyage — but the wind has 

fail'd — 



290 



Growing dark too — but light enough 
to row. 

Row to the Blessed Isles ! the Blessed 
Isles ! — 

Sinnatus ! 

Why comes he not to meet me ? It is 
the crown 

Offends him — and my hands are too 
sleepy 

To lift it off (Phcebe takes the crown off. ) 
Who touch' d me then ? I thank 
you. 

[Eises, with outspread arms. 

There — league on league of ever-shin- 
ing shore 

Beneath an ever-rising sun — I see 
him — 

' Camma, Camma ! ' Sinnatus, Sinna- 
tus ! {Dies. 



THE PROMISE OF MAY 

l A surface man of 'theories ; true to rione'' 
DRAMATIS PERSONS 



Farmer Dobson. 

Mr. Philip Edgar {afterwards Mr. Harold). 
Farmer Steer (Dora and Eva's Father). 
Mr. Wilson (a Schoolmaster). 

HlGGINS ] 

James 

Pan Smith }■ Farm Laborers. 

Jackson I 

Allen J 

Dora Steer. 

Eva Steer. 

Sally Allen ( 

Milly | 

Farm Servants, Laborers, etc. 



• Farm Servants. 



THE PROMISE OF MAY 
ACT I 

Scene. — Before Farmhouse 

Farming Men and Women. Farming 

Men carrying forms, etc., Women 

carrying baskets of knives and forks, 

etc. 

First Farming Man. Be thou a- 
gawin' to the long barn ? 

Second Farming Man. Ay, to be 
sewer ! Be thou ? 

First Farming Man. Why, o' coorse, 
fur it be the owd man's birthdaay. 
He be heighty this very daay, and 'e 
telled all on us to be i' the long barn 
by one o'clock, fur he '11 gie us a big 
dinner, and haaf e th' parish '11 be theer, 
an' Miss Dora, an' Miss Eva, an' all! « 

Second Farming Man. Miss Dora 
be coomed back, then ? 

First Farming Man. Ay, haafe an 
hour ago. She be in theer now. 
{Pointing, to house.) Owd Steer wur 
afeiird she would n't be back i' time 
to keep his birthdaay, and he wur in 
a tew about it all the murnin' ; and he 
sent me wi' the gig to Littlechester to 
fetch 'er ; and 'er an' the owd man 
they fell a kissin' o' one another like 
two sweet-' arts i' the poorch as soon 
as he clapt eyes of 'er. 24 



Second Farming Man. Foalks says 
he likes Miss Eva the best. 

First Farming Man. Naay,I knaws 
nowt o' what foalks says, an' I caares 
nowt neither. Foalks does n't hallus 
knaw thessens ; but sewer I be, they 
be two o' the purtiest gels ye can see 
of a summer murnin'. 32 

Second Farming Man. Beant Miss 
Eva gone off a bit of 'er good looks o' 
laate 1 

First Farming Man. ISToa, not a 
bit. 

Second Farming Man. Why, coom 
awaay, then, to the long barn. {Exeunt. 



Dora looks out of window. 
Dobson. 



Enter 



Dora (singing). 

The town lay still in the low sunlight, 40 
The hen cluckt late by the white farm gate, 
The maid to her dairy came in from the 

cow, 
The stock-dove coo'd at the fall of night, 
The blossom had open'd on every bough ; 
O, joy for the promise of May, of May, 
O, joy for the promise of May ! 

(Nodding at Dobson.) I'm coming 
down, Mr. Dobson. I have n't seen 
Eva yet. Is she anywhere in the gar- 
den ? , 50 
Dobson. Noa, Miss. I ha'n't seed 
'ern either. 



ACT I 



THE PROMISE OF MAY 



901 



Dora (enters singing). 

But a red lire woke in the heart of the 

town, 
And a fox from the glen ran away with the 

hen, 
And a cat to the cream, and a rat to the 

cheese ; 
And the stock-dove coo'd, till a kite dropt 

down, 
And a salt wind burnt the blossoming 

trees ; 
O, grief for the promise of May, of May, 
O, grief for the promise of May ! 

I don't know why I sing that song; 
I don't love it. 61 

Dobson. Blessings on your pretty 
voice, Miss Dora ! Wheer did they 
larn ye that ? 

Dora. In Cumberland, Mr. Dob- 
son. 

Dobson. An' how did ye leave the 
owd uncle i' Coomb erland ? 

Dora. Getting better, Mr. Dobson. 
But he'll never be the same man 
again. 7 i 

Dobson. An' how d' ye find the 
owd man 'ere ? 

Dora. As well as ever. I came 
back to keep his birthday. 

Dobson. Well, I be coomed to keep 
his birthdaay an' all. The owd man 
be heighty to-daay, beant he ? 78 

Dora. Yes, Mr. Dobson. And the 
day 's bright like a friend, but the 
wind east like an enemy. Help me to 
move this bench for him into the sun. 
( They move bench.) No, not that way 
— here, under the apple-tree. Thank 
you. Look how full of rosy blossom 
it is. [Pointing to apple-tree. 

Dobson. Theer be redder blossoms 
nor them, Miss Dora. 

Dora. Where do they blow, Mr. 
Dobson ? 90 

Dobson. Under your eyes, Miss 
Dora. 

Dora. Do they ? 

Dobson. And your eyes be as blue 
as — 

Dora. What, Mr. Dobson? A 
butcher's frock ? 

Dobson. Noa, Miss Dora ; as blue 
as — 99 

Dora. Bluebell, harebell, speed- 
well, blue-bottle, succory, forget-me- 
not? 



Dobson. Noa, Miss Dora ; as blue 
as — 

Dora. The sky ? or the sea on a blue 
day? 

Dobson. Naay then. I mean'd they 
be as blue as violets. 

Dora. Are they ? 109 

Dobson. Theer ye goiis agean, Miss, 
niver believing owt I says to ye — 
hallus a-fobbing ma off, tho' ye knaws 
I love ye. I warrants ye '11 think moor 
o' this young Squire Edgar as ha' 
coomed among us — the Lord knaws 
how — ye '11 think more on 'is little 
finger than hall my hand at the haltar. 

Dora. Perhaps, Master Dobson. I 
can 't tell, for I have never seen him. 
But my sister wrote that he was mighty 
pleasant, and had no pride in him. 121 

Dobson. He'll be arter you now, Miss 
Dora. 

Dora. Will he ? How can I tell ? 

Dobson. He 's been arter Miss Eva, 
haan't he ? 

Dora. Not that I know. 

Dobson. Did n't I spy 'em a-sitting 
i' the woodbine harbor togither ? 

Dora. What of that? Eva told me 
that he was taking her likeness. He 's 
an artist. 132 

Dobson. What 's a hartist ? I doant 
believe he 's iver a 'eart under his waist- 
coat. And I tells ye what, Miss Dora : 
he's no respect for the Queen, or the 
parson, or the justice o' peace, or owt. 
I ha' heard 'ini a-gawin' on 'ud make 
your 'air — God bless it ! — stan' on 
end. And wuss nor that. When theer 
wur a meeting o' farmers at Little- 
chester t' other daily, and they was all 
a-crying out at the bad times, he cooms 
up, and he calls out among our oan 
men, 'The land belongs to the peo- 
ple!' 146 

Dora. And what did yo u say to t hat V 

Dobson. Well, I says, s'pose my 
pig 's the land, and you says it belongs 
to the parish, and theer be a thousand 
i' the parish, taakin' in the women and 
childer ; and s'pose I kills my pig, and 
gi'es it among 'em, why there wud n't 
be a dinner for nawbody, and 1 should 
ha' lost the pig. 155 

Dora. And what did he say to that ? 

Dobson. Nowt — what, could he 
saiiy ? But I taakes *im fur a bad lot 



902 



THE PROMISE OF MAY 



ACT I 



and a bum fool, and I haates the very 
sight on him. 160 

Dora (looking at Dobson). Master 
Dobson, you are a comely man to look 
at. 

Dobson. I thank you for that, Miss 
Dora, onyhow. 

Dora. Ay, but you turn right ugly 
when you 're in an ill temper ; and I 
promise you that if you forget your- 
self in your behavior to this gentleman, 
my father's friend, I will never change 
word with you again. 171 

Enter Farming Man from barn. 

Farming Man. Miss, the farming 
men 'ull hev their dinner i' the long 
barn, and the master 'ud be straange 
an' pleased if you 'd step in fust, and 
see that all be right and reg'lar fur 'em 
af oor he coom. [Exit. 

Dora. I go. Master Dobson, did 
you hear what I said ? 179 

Dobson. Yeas, yeas ! I '11 not med- 
dle wi' 'im if he doant meddle wi' mea. 
(Exit Dora.) 'Coomly,' says she. I 
niver thowt o' mysen i' that waay ; 
but if she'd taake to ma i' that waay, 
or ony waay, I 'd slaave out my life 
fur 'er. ' Coomly to look at,' says she 
— but she said it spiteful-like. To look 
at — yeas, ' coomly ; ' and she mayn't 
be so fur out theer. But if that be 
nowt to she, then it be nowt to me. 
(Looking off stage. ) Schoolmaster ! 
Why if Steer han't haxed schoolmaster 
to dinner, thaw 'e knaws I was hallus 
agean heving schoolmaster i' the par- 
ish ! fur him as be handy wi' a boook 
beant but haaf e a hand at a pitchfork. 
Enter Wilson. 

Well, Wilson. I seed that one cow 
o' thine i' the pinfold agean as I wur 
a-coomin' 'ere. 199 

Wilson. Very likely, Mr. Dobson. 
She will break fence. I can't keep her 
in order. 

Dobson. An' if tha can't keep thy 
one cow i' horder, how can tha keep 
all thy scholards i' horder? But let- 
that goii by. What dost a knaw o' 
this Mr. Hedgar as be a-lodgin' wi' 
ye ? I coom'd upon 'im t' other daay 
lookin' at the coontry, then a-scrattin 
upon a bit o' paaper, then a-lookin' 
agean ; and I taaked 'im fur soom sort 
of a land-surveyor — but a beant. 212 



Wilson. He 's a Somersetshire man, 
and a very civil-spoken gentleman. 

Dobson. Gentleman ! What be he 
a-doing here ten mile an' moor fro' a 
raail ? We laays out o' the waay fur 
gentlefoalk altogither — leastwaays 
they niver cooms 'ere but fur the trout 
i' our beck, fur they be knaw'd as far 
as Littlechester. But 'e doant fish 
neither. 222 

Wilson. Well, it 's no sin in a gen- 
tleman not to fish. 

Dobson. Noa, but I haates 'im. 

Wilson. Better step out of his road, 
then, for he's walking to us, and with 
a book in his hand. 

Dobson. An' I haates boooks an' all, 
fur they puts f oalk off the owd waays. 
Enter Edgar, reading — not seeing 
Dobson and Wilson. 

Edgar. This author, with his charm 
of simple style 231 

And close dialectic, all but proving man 
An automatic series of sensations, 
Has often numb'd me into apathy 
Against the unpleasant jolts of this 

rough road 
That breaks off short into the abysses 

— made me 

A quietist taking all things easily. 

Dobson (aside). There mun be sum- 

mut wrong theer, Wilson, fur I doant 

understan' it. 240 

Wilson (aside). Nor I either, Mr. 

Dobson. 

Dobson (scornfully). An' thou doant 
understan' it neither — and thou school- 
master an' all ! 

Edgar. What can a man, then, live 

for but sensations, 
Pleasant ones? men of old would 

undergo 
Unpleasant for the sake of pleasant 

ones 
Hereafter, like the Moslem beauties 

waiting 
To clasp their lovers by the golden 

gates. 250 

For me, whose cheerless Houris after 

death 
Are Night and Silence, pleasant ones 

— the while — 

If possible, here ! to crop the flower 
and pass. 
Dobson. Well, I never 'eard the likes 
o' that afoor. 



j 



ACT I 



THE PROMISE OF MAY 



9°3 



Wilson (aside). But I have, Mr. Dob- 
son. It's the old Scripture text, 'Let 
us eat and drink, for to-morrow we 
die.' I'm sorry for it, for, tho' he 
never comes to church, I thought bet- 
ter of him. 260 
Edgar. ' What are we, ' says the blind 
old man in Lear ? 
' As flies to the gods ; they kill us for 
their sport.' 
Dobson (aside). Then the owd man 
i' Lear should be shaamed of hissen, 
but noan o' the parishes goas by that 
naame 'ereabouts. 
Edgar. The gods ! but they, the 
shadows of ourselves. 
Have past for ever. It is Nature kills, 
And not for her sport either. She knows 

nothing. 
Man only knows, the worse for him ! 
for why 270 

Cannot he take his pastime like the 

flies? 
And if my pleasure breed another's 

pain, 
Well — is not that the course of Nature 

too, 
From the dim dawn of being — her 

main law 
Whereby she grows in beauty — that 

her flies ' 
Must massacre each other? this poor 
Nature ! 
Dobson. Natur ! Natur ! Well, it be 
i' my natur to knock 'im o' the 'ead 
now ; but I we ant. 
Edgar. A quietist taking all things 
easily — why — 280 

Have I been dipping into this again 
To steel myself against the leaving 
her? 

[Closes book, seeing Wilson. 
Good day ! 

Wilson. Good day, sir. 

[Dobson looks hard at Edgar. 
Edgar (to Dobson). Have I the plea- 
sure, friend, of knowing you ? 
Dobson. Dobson, 
Edgar. Good day, then, Dobson. 

[Exit. 
Dobson. ' Good daiiy, then, Dobson! ' 
Civil-spoken i'deed ! Why, Wilson, 
tha 'eiird 'im thysen — the feller 
could n't find a Mister in his mouth 
fur me, as farms five hoonderd 
naiicre. 294 



Wilson. You never find one for me, 
Mr. Dobson. 

Dobson. Noa, fur thou be nobbut 
schoolmaster ; but I taakes 'im for a 
Lunnun swindler, and a burn fool. 

Wilson. He can hardly be both, and 
he pays me regular every Saturday. 

Dobson. Yeas ; but I haates 'im. 
Enter Steer, Farm Men and Women. 

Steer (goes and sits under apple-tree). 
Hev' ony o' ye seen Eva ? 303 

Dobson. Noa, Mr. Steer. 

Steer. Well, I reckons they '11 hev' 
a fine cider-crop to-year if the blossom 
'owds. Good murnin', neighbors, and 
the saame to you, my men. I taakes 
it kindly of all o' you that you be 
coomed — what 's the newspaaper 
word, Wilson? — celebrate — to cele- 
brate my birthdaay i' this fashion. 
Niver man 'ed better friends, and I 
will saay niver master 'ed better men ; 
fur thaw I may ha' fallen out wi' ye 
sometimes, the fault, mebbe, wur as 
much mine as yours ; and, thaw I says 
it mysen, niver men 'ed a better mas- 
ter, and I knaws what men be, and 
what masters be, fur I wur nobbut a 
laaborer, and now I be a landlord — 
burn a plowman, and now, as far as 
money goas, I be a gentleman, thaw 
I beant naw scholard, fur I 'ednt naw 
time to maake mysen a scholard while 
I wur maakin' mysen a gentleman, but 
I ha' taaen good care to turn out boath 
my darters right down fine laadies. 

Dobson. An' soil they be. 329 

First Farming Man. Soa they be ! 
soa they be ! 

Second Farming Man. The Lord 
bless boath on 'em ! 

Third Farming Man. An' the saame 
to you, master ! 

Fourth Farming Man. And long life 
to boath on 'em ! An' the saame to you, 
Master Steer, likewise ! 

Steer. Thank ye ! 

Enter Eva. 

Wheer 'asta been ? 340 

Era {timidly). Many happy returns 
of the clay, father. 

Steer. They c;in't be many, my dear. 
but I 'o&pes they '11 be 'appy. 

Dobson, Why, tha looks haftle anew 
to last to a hoonderd. 

Sft< r. An' why Should n't 1 las! fco a 



9°4 



THE PROMISE OF MAY 



ACT I 



hoonderd ? Haale! why should n't I be 
haale ? fur thaw I be h eighty this very 
daay, I niver 'es sa much as one pin's 
prick of paain ; an' I can taake my 
glass along wi' the youngest, fur I 
niver touched a drop of owt till my oan 
wedding-daay, an' then I wur turned 
lmppads o' sixty. Why shouldn't I 
be haale ? I ha' plowed the ten-aacre 

— it be mine now — af oor ony o' ye 
wur burn — ye all knaws the ten aacre 

— I mun ha' plowed it moor nor a 
hoonderd times ; hallus hup at sunrise, 
and I "d drive the plow straait as a line 
right i' the faace o' the sun, then back 
agean, a-follering my oan shadder — 
then hup agean i' the faace o' the sun. 
Eh! how the sun 'ud shine, and the 
larks 'ud sing i' them daays, and the 
smell o' the mou'd an' all. Eh ! if I 
could ha' gone on wi' the plowin' nob- 
but the smell o' the mou'd 'ud ha' 
maade ma live as long as Jerusalem. 

Eva. Methuselah, father. 371 

Steer. Ay, lass, but when thou be as 
owd as me thou '11 put one word fur 
another as I does. 

Bobson. But, Steer, thaw thou be 
haale anew I seed tha a-limpin' up j ust 
now wi' the roomatics i' the knee. 

Steer. Roomatics ! Noa ; I laame't 
my knee last night running arter a 
thief. Beant there house-breakers 
down i' Littlechester, Dobson, — doant 
ye hear of ony ? 382 

Dobson. Ay, that there be. Imman- 
uel Goldsmith's was broke into o' 
Monday night, and ower a hoonderd 
pounds worth o' rings stolen. 

Steer. So I thowt, and I heard the 
winder — that 's the winder at the end 
o' the passage, that goas by thy chaum- 
ber. {Turning to Eva.) Why, lass, 
what maakes tha sa red ? Did 'e git 
into thy chaumber ? 392 

Eva, Father ! 

Steer. Well, I runned arter thief i' 
the dark, and fell agean coalscuttle and 
my kneea gev waay or I 'd ha' cotched 
Mm, but afoor I coomed up he got 
thruff the winder agean. 

Eva. Got thro' the window again ? 

Steer. Ay, but he left the mark of 
'is foot i' the flower-bed ; now theer be 
noan o' my men, thinks I to mysen, 
'ud ha' done it 'cep' it were Dan Smith, 



fur I cotched 'im once a-stealin' coals, 
air I sent fur 'im, an' I measured his 
foot wi' the mark i' the bed, but it 
would n't fit — seeams to me the mark 
wur maade by a Lunnun boot. (Looks 
at Eva.) Why, now, what maakes 
•tha sa white ? 4IO 

Ma. Fright, father ! 

Steer. Maake thysen easy. I '11 hev 
the winder naailed up, and put Towser 
under it. 

Exa {clasping Iter liands). No, no, 
father ! Towser '11 tear him all to 
pieces. 

Steer. Let him keep awaay, then ; 
but coom, coom ! let 's be gawin. They 
ha' broached a barrel of aale i' the long 
barn, and the fiddler be theer, and the 
lads and lassies 'ull hev a dance. 422 

Eva (aside). Dance ! small heart have 
I to dance. I should seem to be dan- 
cing upon a grave. 

Steer. Wheer be Mr. Edgar ? about 
the premises ? 

Dobson. Hallus about the premises ! 

Steer. So much the better, so much 
the better. I likes 'im, and Eva likes 
'im. Eva can do owt wi' 'im ; look 
for 'im, Eva, and bring 'im to the barn. 
He 'ant naw pride in 'im, and we'll 
git 'm to speechify for us arter dinner. 

Eva. Yes, father ! [Exit. 

Steer. Coom along then, all the rest 
o' ye! Church-warden be a coomin', 
thaw me and 'im we niver 'grees about 
the tithe ; and parson mebbe, thaw he 
niver mended that gap i' the glebe 
fence as I telled 'im ; and blacksmith, 
thaw he niver shoes a herse to my 
likings ; and baaker, thaw I sticks 
to hoam-maade — but all on 'em wel- 
come, all on 'em welcome ; and I 've 
hed the long barn cleared out of all 
the machines, and the sacks, and the 
taaters, and the mangles, and theer '11 
be room anew for all o' ye. Foller me. 

All. Yeas, yeas! Three cheers for 
Mr. Steer. 45 i 

[All exeunt except Dobson into barn. 
Enter Edgar. 

Dobson (who is going, turns). Squire ! 
if so be you be a squire. 

Edgar. Dobbins, I think. 

Dobson. Dobbins, you thinks ; and 
I thinks ye wears a Lunnun boot. 

Edgar. Well? 



ACT I 



THE PROMISE OF MAY 



9°5 



Dobson. And I thinks I 'd like to 
taake the measure o' your foot. 

Edgar. Ay, if you " d like to measure 

your own length upon the grass. 461 

Dobson. Coom, coom, that 's a good 

un. Why, I could throw four o' ye ; 

but I promised one of the Misses I 

would n't meddle wi' ye, and I weant. 

[Exit into bam. 

Edgar. Jealous of me with Eva! Is 

it so ? 
Well, tho' I grudge the pretty jewel, 

that I 
Have worn, to such a clod, yet that 

might be 
The best way out of it, if the child 

could keep 
Her counsel. I am sure I wish her 

happy. 470 

But I must free myself from this en- 
tanglement. 
I have all my life before me — so has 

she — 
Give her a month or two, and her af- 
fections 
Will flower toward the light in some 

new face. 
Still I am half -afraid to meet her now. 
She will urge marriage on me. I hate 

tears. 
Marriage is but an old tradition. I hate 
Traditions, ever since my narrow fa- 
ther, 
After my frolic with his tenant's girl, 
Made younger elder son, violated the 

whole 480 

Tradition of our land, and left his 

heir, 
Born, happily, with some sense of art, 

to live 
By brush and pencil. By and by, when 

Thought 
Comes down among the crowd, and 

man perceives that 
The lost gleam of an after-life but 

leaves him 
A beast of prey in the dark, why then 

the crowd 
May wreak my wrongs upon my 

wrongers. Marriage ! 
That fine, fat, hook-nosed uncle of 

mine, old Harold, 
Who leaves me all his land at Little- 

chester, 
He, too, would oust me from his will, 

if I 49° 



Made such a marriage. And marriage 

in itself — 
The storm is hard at hand will sweep 

away 
Thrones, churches, ranks, traditions, 

customs, marriage 
One of the feeblest ! Then the man, 

the woman, 
Following their best affinities, will 

each 
Bid their old bond farewell with 

smiles, not tears ; 
Good wishes, not reproaches ; with no 

fear 
Of the world's gossiping clamor, and 

no need 
Of veiling their desires. 

Conventionalism, 
Who shrieks by day at what she does 

by night, 500 

Would call this vice ; but one time's 

vice may be 
The virtue of another ; and Vice and 

Virtue 
Are but two masks of self ; and what 

hereafter 
Shall mark out Vice from Virtue in 

the gulf 
Of never-dawning darkness ? 

Enter Eva. 

My sweet Eva, 

Where have you lain in ambush all 
the morning ? 

They say your sister, Dora, has re- 
turn'd, 

And that should make you happy, if 
you love her ! 

But you look troubled. 

Em. O, I love her so, 

I was afraid of her, and I hid my- 
self. 5'° 

We never kept a secret from each 
other ; 

She would have seen at once into my 
trouble, 

And ask'd me what I could not answer. 
O, Philip, 

Father heard you last night. Our sav- 
age mastiff. 

That all but kill'd the beggar, will be 
placed 

Beneath the window, Philip. 

Edgar. Savage, is he I 

What matters? Come, give me your 
hand and kiss me 



906 



THE PROMISE OF MAY 



ACT I 



This beautiful May-morning. 

Eva. The most beautiful 

May we have had for many years ! 

Edgar. And here 

Is the most beautiful morning of this 

May. 520 

Nay, you must smile upon me ! There 

— you make 
The May and morning still more beau- 
tiful, 
You, the most beautiful blossom of the 
May. 
Eva. Dear Philip, all the world is 
beautiful 
If we were happy, and could chime in 
with it. 
Edgar. True ; for the senses, love, 
are for the world ; 
That for the senses. 
Em. Yes. 

Edgar. And when the man, 

The child of evolution, flings aside 
His swaddling-bands, the morals of the 

tribe, 
He, following his own instincts as his 
God, 530 

Will enter on the larger golden age, 
No pleasure then taboo'd ; for when 

the tide 
Of full democracy has overwhelm'd 
This Old World, from that flood will 

rise the New, 
Like the Love- goddess, with no bridal 

veil, 
Ring, trinket of the Church, but naked 

Nature 
In all her loveliness. 
Eva. What are you saying ? 

Edgar. That, if we did not strain 
to make ourselves 
Better and higher than Nature, we 

might be 
As happy as the bees there at their 
honey 540 

In these sweet blossoms. 
Eva. Yes ; how sweet they smell ! 
Edgar. There ! let me break some 
off for you. 

[Breaking branch off. 
Eva. My thanks. 

But, look, how wasteful of the blossom 

you are ! 
One, two, three, four, five, six — you 

have robb'd poor father 
Of ten good apples. O, I forgot to tell 
you 



He wishes you to dine along with us, 
And speak for him after — you that 
are so clever ! 
Edgar. I grieve I cannot ; but, in- 
deed — 
Eva. What is it ? 

Edgar. Well, business. I must leave 

you, love, to-day. 
Eca. Leave me, to-day ! And when 
will you return ? 55 o 

Edgar. I cannot tell precisely ; but — 
Eva. But what ? 

Edgar. I trust, my dear, we shall 

be always friends. 
Eva. After all that has gone be- 
tween us — friends ! 
What, only friends ? [Drops branch. 
Edgar. All that has gone between 
us 
Should surely make us friends. 
Eva. But keep us lovers. 

Edgar. Child, do you love me now ? 
Eva. Yes, now and ever. 

Edgar. Then you should wish us 
both to love for ever. 
But, if you will bind love to one for 

ever, 
Altho' at first he take his bonds for 

flowers, 
As years go on, he feels them press 
upon him, 560 

Begins to flutter in them, and at last 
Breaks thro' them, and so flies away 

for ever ; 
While, had you left him free use of his 

wings, 
Who knows that he had ever dream'd 
of flying ? 
Eva. But all that sounds so wicked 
and so strange ; 
'Till death us part' — those are the 

only words, 
The true ones — nay, and those not 

true enough, 
For they that love do not believe that 

death 
Will part them. Why do you jest 

with me, and try 
To fright me ? Tho' you are a gentle- 
man, 570 
I but a farmer's daughter — 

Edgar. Tut! you talk 

Old feudalism. When the great De- 
mocracy 
Makes a new world — 
Eva. And if you be not j esting, 



ACT I 



THE PROMISE OF MAY 



907 



Neither the old world, nor the new, nor 

father, 
Sister, nor you, shall ever see me more. 
Edgar (moved). Then — (aside) Shall 

I say it ? — (aloud) fly with me 

to-day. 
Eva. No! Philip, Philip, if you do 

not marry me, 
I shall go mad for utter shame and die. 
Edgar. Then, if we needs must be 

conventional, 
When shall your parish-parson bawl 

our banns 580 

Before your gaping clowns ? 

Eva. Not in our church — 

I think I scarce could hold my head 

up there. 
Is there no other way ? 

Edgar. Yes, if you cared 

To fee an over-opulent superstition, 
Then they would grant you what they 

call a license 
To marry. Do you wish it ? 
Eva. Do I wish it ? 

Edgar, In London. 
Eva. You will write to me ? 

Edgar. I will. 

Eva. And I will fly to you thro' the 

night, the storm — 
Yes, tho' the fire should run along the 

ground, 
As once it did in Egypt. O, you 

see, 559 

I was just out of school, I had no 

mother — 
My sister far away — and you, a gentle- 
man, 
Told me to trust you — yes, in every- 
thing — 
That was the only true love ; and I 

trusted — 
O, yes, indeed, I would have died for 

you. 
How could you — O, how could you ? 

— nay, how could I ? 
But now you will set all right again, 

and I 
Shall not be made the laughter of the 

village, 
And poor old father not die miserable. 

Dora (singing in the distance). 

O, joy for the promise of May, of May, 
6, joy for the promise of May! 601 

Edgar. Speak not so loudly ; that 
must be your sister. 



You never told her, then, of what has 

past 
Between us. 
Eva. Never ! 

Edgar. Do not till I bid you. 

Eva. No, Philip, no. [Turns aicay. 

Edgar (moved). How gracefully there 

she stands 

Weeping — the little Niobe! What! 

we prize 
The statue or the picture all the more 
When we have made them ours ! Is 

she less lovable, 
Less lovely, being wholly mine ? To 
stay — 609 

Follow my art among these quiet fields, 
Live with these honest folk — 

and play the fool ! 
No! she that gave herself to me so 

easily 
Will yield herself as easily to another. 
Eva. Did you speak, Philip ? 
Edgar. Nothing more, farewell. 
[They embrace. 

Dora (coming nearer). 

O, grief for the promise of May, of May, 
O, grief for the promise Of May! 

Edgar (still embracing her). Keep 

up your heart until we meet 

again. 
Eva. If that should break before 

we meet again ? 
Edgar. Break ! nay, but call for 

Philip when you will, 
And he returns. 

Eva. Heaven hears you, Philip 

Edgar ! 620 

Edgar (moved). And he would hear 

you even from the grave. 
Heaven curse him if he come not at 

your call ! [Exit. 

Enter Dora. 

Dora. Well, Eva ! 

Eva. O, Dora, Dora, how long you 
have been away from home! O, how 
often I have wished for you ! It seemed 
to me that we were parted for ever. 

Dora. For ever, you foolish child ! 
What's come over you? We parted 
like the brook yonder about the alder 
island, to come together again in a 
moment and to go on together again, 
till one of US be married. But where 
is this Mr. Edgar whom yon praised 



908 



THE PROMISE OF MAY 



ACT II 



so in your first letters ? You have n't 
even mentioned him in your last ? 636 

Eva. He has gone to London. 

Dora. Ay, child ; and you look 
thin and pale. Is it for his absence ? 
Have you fancied yourself in love 
with him ? That 's all nonsense, you 
know, such a baby as you are. But 
you shall tell me all about it. 643 

Eva. Not now — presently. Yes, 
I have been in trouble, but I am happy 
— I think, quite happy now. 

Dora {taking Eva's hand). Come, 
then, and make them happy in the long 
barn, for father is in his glory, and 
there is a piece of beef like a house- 
side, and a plum-pudding as big as the 
round hay-stack. But see, they are 
coming out for the dance already. 
Well, my child, let us join them. 654 
Enter all from barn, laughing. Eva 

sits reluctantly under apple-tree. 

Steer enters, smoking, sits by Eva. 
Dance. 



ACT II 

Five years have elapsed between Acts I. 
and II. 

Scene. — A Meadow. On one side 
a Pathway going over a rustic 
Bridge. At back the Farm- 
house AMONG THE TREES. In THE 
DISTANCE A CHURCH SPIRE 

Dobson and Dora. 

Dobson. So the owd uncle i' Coom- 
berland be dead, Miss Dora, beant he? 

Dora. Yes, Mr. Dobson, I 've been 
attending on his death-bed and his 
burial. 

Dobson. It be five year sin' ye went 
afoor to him, and it seems to me nob- 
but t'other day. Hes n't he left ye 
nowt ? 

Dora. No, Mr. Dobson. 10 

Dobson. But he were mighty fond 
o' ye, warn't he ? 

Doroj. Fonder of poor Eva — like 
everybody else. 

Dobson {handing Dora basket of roses). 
Not like me, Miss Dora; and I ha' 
browt these roses to ye — I forgits 
what they calls 'em, but I hallus gi'ed 



soom on 'em to Miss Eva at this time 
o' year. Will ya taake 'em ? fur Miss 
Eva, she set the bush by my dairy 
winder afoor she went to school at 
Littlechester — so I alius browt soom 
on 'em to her ; and now she be gone, 
will ye taake 'em, Miss Dora ? 25 

Dora. I thank you. They tell me 
that yesterday you mentioned her 
name too suddenly before my father. 
See that you do not do so again ! 

Dobson. Noa ; I knaws a deal bet- 
ter now. I seed how the owd man 
wur vext. 32 

Dora. I take them, then, for Eva's 
sake. 

[Takes basket, places some in her 
dress. 

Dobson. Eva's saake. Yeas. Poor 
gell, poor gell ! I can't abear to think 
on 'er now, fur I 'd ha' done owt fur 
'er mysen; an' ony o ? Steer's men, an' 
ony o ? my men 'ud ha' done owt fur 
'er, an' all the parish 'ud ha' done owt 
fur 'er, fur we was all on us proud on 
'er, an' them theer be soom of her oan 
roses, an' she wur as sweet as ony on 
'em — the Lord bless 'er — 'er oan sen ; 
an' weant ye taake 'em now, Miss 
Dora, fur 'er saake an' fur my saake 
an' all ? 47 

Dora. Do you want them back 
again ? 

Dobson. Noa, noa ! Keep 'em. But 
I lied a word to saay to ye. 

Dora. Why, Farmer, you should 
be in the hay-field looking after your 
men; you couldn't have more splen- 
did weather. 

Dobson. I be a going theer ; but I 
thowt I 'd bring tha them roses fust. 
The weather 's well anew, but the 
glass be a bit shaaky. S'iver we 've 
led moast on it, 60 

Dora. Ay ! but you must not be 
too sudden with it either, as you were 
last year, when you put it in green, 
and your stack caught fire. 

Dobson. I were insured, Miss, an' 
I lost nowt by it. But I weant be too 
sudden wi' it ; and I feel sewer, Miss 
Dora, that I ha' been noan too sudden 
wi' you, fur I ha' sarved fer ye well 
nigh as long as the man sarved for 'is 
sweet' art i' Scriptur'. Weant ye gi'e 
me a kind answer at last ? 72 



ACT II 



THE PROMISE OF MAY 



909 



Dora. I have no thought of mar- 
riage, my friend. We have been in 
such grief these five years, not only 
on my sister's account, but the ill 
success of the farm, and the debts, 
and my father's breaking down, and 
his blindness. How could I think of 
leaving him ? 80 

Dobson. Eh, but I be well to do ; 
and if ye would nobbut hev me, I 
would taake the owd blind man to 
my oan fireside. You should hev him 
alius wi' ye. 

Dora. You are generous, but it 
cannot be. I cannot love you ; nay, I 
think I never can be brought to love 
any man. It seems to me that I hate 
men, ever since my sister left us. O, 
see here. (Pulls out a letter.) I wear 
it next my heart. Poor sister, I 
had it five years ago. ' Dearest 
Dora, — I have lost myself, and am 
lost for ever to you and my poor 
father. I thought Mr. Edgar the best 
of men, and he has proved himself the 
worst. Seek not for me, or you may 
find me at the bottom of the river. — 
Eva/ 100 

Dobson. Be that my fault ? 

Dora. No ; but how should I, 
with this grief still at my heart, take 
to the milking of your cows, the fat- 
ting of your calves, the making of 
your butter, and the managing of 
your poultry ? 

Dobson. Naay, but I hev an owd 
woman as 'ud see to all that ; and you 
should sit i' your oan parlor quite like 
a laady, ye should ! m 

Dora. It cannot be. 

Dobson. And plaay the pianner, if 
ye liked, all daay long, like a laady, 
ye should an' all. 

Dora. It cannot be. 

Dobson. And I would loove tha 
moor nor ony gentleman 'ud loove tha. 

Dora. No, no ; it cannot be. 119 

Dobson. And p'raps ye hears 'at I 
soomtimes taakes a drop too much ; 
but that be all along o' you, Miss, be- 
cause ye weant hev me ; but, if ye 
would, I could put all that o' one side 
easy anew. 

Dora. Cannot you understand plain 
words, Mr. Dobson ft I tell you, it can- 
not be. 128 



Dobson. Eh, lass! Thy feyther 
eddicated his darters to marry gentle- 
foalk, and see what 's coomed on it. 

Dora. That is enough, Farmer Dob- 
son. You have shown me that, though 
fortune had born you into the estate 
of a gentleman, you would still have 
been Farmer Dobson. You had better 
attend to your hay-field. Good-after- 
noon. [Exit. 

Dobson. ' Farmer Dobson ! ' Well, 
I be Farmer Dobson ; but I thinks 
Farmer Dobson's dog 'ud ha' knaw'd 
better nor to cast her sister's misfor- 
tin inter 'er teeth arter she 'd been 
a-readin' me the letter wi' 'er voice a- 
shaakin', and the drop in 'er eye. 
Theer she goas ! Shall I f oiler 'er and 
ax 'er to maake it up ? Noa, not yet. 
Let 'er cool upon it ; I likes 'er all the 
better fur taakin' me down, like a 
laady, as she be. Farmer Dobson ! 
I be Farmer Dobson sewer anew ; but 
if iver I cooms upo' Gentleman Hed- 
gar agean, and doant laay my cart- 
whip athurt 'is shou'ders, why then I 
beant Farmer Dobson, but summun 
else — blaame 't if I beant ! 156 

Enter Haymakers with a load of hay. 

The last on it, eh ? 

First Haymaker. Yeas. 

Dobson. Hoiim wi' it, then. 

[Exit surlily. 

First Haymaker. Well, it be the 
last load hoam. 161 

Second Haymaker. Yeas, an' owd 
Dobson should be glad on it. What 
maakes 'im alius sa glum ? 

Sally Allen. Glum ! he be wuss 
nor glum. He coom'd up to me yister- 
daay i' the haay-field, when nieii and 
my sweet'art was a-workin' along o' 
one side wi' one another, and he sent 
'im awaay to t' other end o' the field ; 
and when I axed 'im why, he telled me 
'at sweet'arts niver worked well to- 
gither ; and I telled Hm 'at sweet'arts 
alius worked best togither ; and then 
he called me a rude naaine, and I can't 
abide 'im. i;' 1 

James. Why, lass, doant tha knaw 
he be sweet upo' Dora Steer, and she 
weant sa much as look at 'im V And 
wheniver V sees two sweet'arts to- 
gither like thou and me, Sally, he be 



910 



THE PROMISE OF MAY 



ACT II 



fit to bust hissen wi' spites and jalou- 
sies. 183 

Sally. Let 'im bust hissen, then, 
for o wt / cares. 

First Haymaker. Well, but, as I 
said af oor, it be the last load hoam ; 
do thou and thy sweet'art sing us 
hoain to supper — ' The Last Load 
Hoam.' 190 

All. Ay! 'The Last Load Hoam. ' 

Song. 

What did ye do, and what did ye saay, 
Wi' the wild white rose, an' the woodbine 

sa gaay, 
An' the midders all mow'd, an' the sky sa 

blue — 
What did ye saay, and what did ye do, 
When ye thowt there were nawbody watch- 
in' 0' you, 
And you an' your Sally was forkin' the 
" haay, 

At the end of the daay, 
For the last load hoam ? 

What did we do, and what did we saay, 200 
Wi' the briar sa green, an' the wilier sa 

graay, 
An' the midders all mow'd, an' the sky sa 

blue — 
Do ye think I be gawin' to tell it to you, 
What we mowt saay, and what we mowt do, 
When me an' my Sally was forkin' the 

haay, 

At the end of the daay, 
For the last load hoam ? 

But what did ye saay, and what did ye do, 
Wi' the butterflies out, and the swallers at 

plaay, 
An' the midders all mow'd, an' the sky sa 

blue? 2IO 

Why, coom then, owd feller, I'll tell it to 

you; 
For me an' my Sally we swear'd to be true, 
To be true to each other, let 'appen what 

maay, 

Till the end of the daay, 
And the last load hoam. 

All. Well sung ! 

James. Fanny be the naame i' the 
song, but I swopt it fur she. 

[Pointing to Sally. 

Sally. Let ma aloan afoor foalk, 
wilt tha ? 220 

First Haymaker. Ye shall sing that 
agean to-night, fur owd Dobson '11 
gi'e us a bit o' supper. 

Sally. I weant goa to owd Dobson ; 
he wur rude to me i' tha haay -field, 



and he '11 be rude to me agean to- 
night. Owd Steer 's gotten all his 
grass down and wants a hand, and 
I '11 goa to him. 229 

First Haymaker. Owd Steer gi'es 
nubbut cowd tea to 'is men, and owd 
Dobson gi'es beer. 

Sally. But I 'd like owd Steer's cowd 
tea better nor Dobson's beer. Good- 
bye. [Going. 

James. Gi'e us a buss fust, lass. 

Sally. I tell'd tha to let ma aloan ! 

James. Why, was n't thou and me 
a-bussin' o' one another t' other side o' 
the haay-cock, when owd Dobson 
coom'd upo' us ? I can't let tha aloan 
if I would, Sally. 

[Offering to kiss her. 

Sally. Git along wi' ye, do ! [Exit. 
[All laugh ; exeunt singing. 

To be true to each other, let 'appen what 
maay, 244 

Till the end 0' the daay, 
An' the last load hoam. 

Enter Harold. 
Harold. Not Harold ! ' Philip Edgar, 

Philip Edgar!' 
Her phantom call'd me by the name 

she loved. 
I told her I should hear her from the 

grave. 
Ay! yonder is her casement. I remem- 
ber 250 
Her bright face beaming starlike down 

upon me 
Thro' that rich cloud of blossom. 

Since I left her 
Here weeping, I have ranged the 

world, and sat 
Thro' every sensual course of that full 

feast 
That leaves but emptiness. 

Song. 

To be true to each other, let 'appen what 
maay, 

To the end 0' the daay, 
An' the last load hoam. 

Harold. Poor Eva ! O my God, if 

man be only 
A willy-nilly current of sensations — 
Reaction needs must follow revel — 

yet — 261 

Why feel remorse, he, knowing that 

he must have 



ACT II 



THE PROMISE OF MAY 



911 



Moved in the iron grooves of Destiny ? 
Remorse then is a part of Destiny, 
Nature a liar, making us feel guilty 
Of her own faults. 

My grandfather — of him 
They say, that women — 

O, this mortal house, 
Which we are born into, is haunted 

by 
The ghosts of the dead passions of 

dead men ; 
And these take flesh again with our 

own flesh, 270 

And bring us to confusion. 

He was only 
A poor philosopher who call'd the 

mind 
Of children a blank page, a tabula 

rasa. 
There, there, is written in invisible 

inks 
' Lust, Prodigality, Covetousness, 

Craft, 
Cowardice, Murder' — and the heat 

and fire 
Of life will bring them out, and black 

enough, 
So the child grow to manhood. Bet- 
ter death 
With our first wail than life — 



Song (further off). 

Till the end o' the daay, 
An' the last load hoam, 
Load hoam. 



280 



This bridge again ! 

(Steps on the bridge.) 
How often have I stood 

With Eva here ! The brook among its 
flowers ! 

Forget-me-not, meadow-sweet, willow- 
herb. 

I had some smattering of science then, 

Taught her the learned names, anato- 
mized 

The flowers for her — and now I only 
wish 

This pool were deep enough, that I 
might plunge 

And lose myself for ever. 290 

Enter Dan Smith (singing). 

Gee oop! whoa! Gee oop! whoa! 
Scizzars an' Pumpy was good uns to goa 

Thruf slush an' squad 

When roads was bad, 



But hallus 'ud stop at the Vine-an'-the-Hop, 
Fur boath on 'em knawed as well as my- 

sen 
That beer be as good fur 'erses as men. 
Gee oop! whoa! Gee oop! whoa! 298 

Scizzars an' Pumpy was good uns to goa. 

The beer 's gotten oop into my 'ead. 
S'iver I mun git along back to the 
farm, fur she tell'd ma to taake the 
cart to Littlechester. 

Enter Dora. 
Dora. Half an hour late ! why are 
you loitering here ? Away with you 
at once. [Exit Dan Smith. 

(Seeing Harold on bridge.) 
Some madman, is it, 
Gesticulating there upon the bridge ? 
I am half afraid to pass. 

Harold. Sometimes I wonder, 

When man has surely learnt at last 

that all 310 

His old-world faith, the blossom of his 

youth, 
Has faded, falling fruitless — whether 

then 
All of us, all at once, may not be 

seized 
With some fierce passion, not so much 

for Death 
As against Life ! all, all, into the 

dark— 
No more ! — and science now could 

drug and balm us 
Back into nescience with as little 

pain 
As it is to fall asleep. 

This beggarly life, 
This poor, flat, hedged-in field — no 

distance — this 
Hollow Pandora-box, 320 

With all the pleasures flown, not even 

Hope 
Left at the bottom ! 

Superstitious fool, 
What brought me here ? To see her 

grave ? her ghost ? 
Her ghost is everyway about me 
here. 
Dora (coming forirard). Allow me, 

sir, to pass you. 
Harold. Eva ! 

Dora. Eva! 

Harold. What are you? Where do 

you come from ? 
Dora. From the farm 

Here, close at hand. 



912 



THE PROMISE OF MAY 



ACT II 



Harold. Are you — you are — that 
Dora, 
The sister. I have heard of you. The 

likeness 
Is very striking. 
Dora. You knew Eva, then ? 

Harold. Yes — I was thinking of 
her when — O, yes, 330 

Many years back, and never since 

have met 
Her equal for pure innocence of 

nature, 
And loveliness of feature. 
Dora. No, nor I. 

Harold. Except, indeed, I have 
found it once again 
In your own self. 

Dora. You flatter me. Dear Eva 
Was always thought the prettier. 

Harold. And her charm 

Of voice is also yours; and I was 

brooding 
Upon a great unhappiness when you 
spoke. 
Dora. Indeed, you seem'd in trouble, 

sir. 
Harold, And you 
Seem my good angel who may help 
me from it. 340 

Dora (aside). How worn he looks, 
poor man ! who is it, I wonder. 
How can I help him? (Aloud.) Might 
I ask your name ? 
Harold, Harold. 
Dora, I never heard her mention 

you. 
Harold. I met her first at a farm in 
Cumberland — 
Her uncle's. 
Dora. She was there six years ago. 
Harold, And if she never mention'd 
me, perhaps 
The painful circumstances which I 

heard — 
I will not vex you by repeating 

them — 
Only last week at Littlechester, drove 

me 
From out her memory. She has disap- 
pear^, 350 
They told me, from the farm — and 
darker news. 
Dora, She has disappeared, poor 
darling, from the world — 
Left but one dreadful line to say, that 



Should find her in the river ; and we 

dragg'd 
The Littlechester river all in vain, 
Have sorrow'd for her all these years 

in vain. 
And my poor father, utterly broken 

down 
By losing her — she was his favorite 

child — 
Has let his farm, all his affairs, I fear, 
But for the slender help that I can 
give, 360 

Fall into ruin. Ah ! that villain, Ed- 
gar, 
If he should ever show his face among 

us, 
Our men and boys would hoot him, 

stone him, hunt him 
With pitchforks off the farm, for all 

of them 
Loved her, and she was worthy of all 
love. 
Harold, They say, we should for- 
give our enemies. 
Dora, Ay, if the wretch were dead 
I might forgive him ; 
We know not whether he be dead or 
living. 
Harold. What Edgar? 
Dora. Philip Edgar of Toft Hall 
In Somerset. Perhaps you know him ? 
Harold. Slightly. 

(Aside.) Ay, for how slightly have I 
known myself ! 371 

Dora. This Edgar, then, is living ? 
Harold. Living ? well — 

One Philip Edgar of Toft Hall in 

Somerset 
Is lately dead. 

Dora. Dead! is there more than 

one? 

Harold. Kay — now — not one, (aside) 

for I am Philip Harold. 

Dora, That one, is he then — dead! 

Harold (aside). My father's death, 

Let her believe it mine ; this, for the 

moment, 
Will leave me a free field. 

Dora, Dead ! and this world 

Is brighter for his absence, as that 
other 379 

Is darker for his presence. 

Harold. Is not this 

To speak too pitilessly of the dead ? 
Dora, My five-years' anger cannot 
die at once, 



ACT II 



THE PROMISE OF MAY 



9 J 3 



Not all at once with death and him. I 

trust 
I shall forgive him — by and by — not 

now. 
O sir, you seem to have a heart ; if 

you 
Had seen us that wild morning when 

we found 
Her bed unslept in, storm and shower 

lashing 
Her casement, her poor spaniel wailing 

for her, 
That desolate letter, blotted with her 

tears, 
Which told us we should never see her 

more — 39 o 

Our old nurse crying as if for her own 

child, 
My father stricken with his first para- 
lysis, 
And then with blindness — had you 

been one of us 
And seen all this, then you would 

know it is not 
So easy to forgive — even the dead. 
Harold. But sure am I that of your 

gentleness 
You will forgive him. She you mourn 

for seem'd 
A miracle of gentleness — would not 

blur 
A moth's wing by the touching ; 

would not crush 
The fly that drew her blood ; and, 

were she living, 4 oo 

Would not — if penitent — have de- 
nied him her 
Forgiveness. And perhaps the man 

himself, 
When hearing of that piteous death, 

has suffer' d 
More than we know. But wherefore 

waste your heart 
In looking on a chill and changeless 

past ? 
Iron will fuse, and marble melt ; the 

past 
Remains the past. But you are young, 

and — pardon me — 
As lovely as your sister. Who can tell 
What golden hours, with what full 

hands, may be 
Waiting you in the distance ? Might I 

call 4 iq 

Upon your father — I have seen the 

world — 



And cheer his blindness with a travel- 
ler's tales ? 
Dora. Call if you will, and when 
you will. I cannot 
W'ell answer for my father ; but if you 
Can tell me anything of our sweet Eva 
When in her brighter girlhood, I at 

least 
Will bid you welcome, and will listen 

to you. 
Now I must go. 
Harold. But give me first your 
hand; 
I do not dare, like an old friend, to 
shake it. 4 i 9 

I kiss it as a prelude to that privilege 
When you shall know me better. 

Dora {aside). How beautiful 

His manners are, and how unlike the 

farmer's ! 
You are staying here ? 

Harold. Yes, at the wayside inn 
Close by that alder-island in your 

brook, 
'The Angler's Home/ 
Dora. Are you one ? 

Harold. No, but I 

Take some delight in sketching, and 

the country 
Has many charms, altho' the inhabi- 
tants 
Seem semi-barbarous. 

Dora. I am glad it pleases you ; 
Yet I, born here, not only love the 

country, 
But its inhabitants too ; and you, I 
doubt not, 430 

Would take to them as kindly, if you 

cared 
To live some time among them. 

Harold. If I did, 

Then one at least of its inhabitants 
Might have more charm for me than 
all the country. 
Dora. That one, then, should be 

grateful for your preference. 
Harold. I cannot tell, tho' standing 
in her presence. 
(Aside.) She colors ! 
Dora. Sir! 

Harold. Be not afraid of me, 

For these are no conventional nour- 
ishes. 
I do most earnestly assure you that 
Your likeness — 

[Shouts and cries without 



914 



THE PROMISE OF MAY 



ACT II 



Dora. What was that ? my poor 
blind father — 440 

Enter Farming Man. 

Farming Man. Miss Dora, Dan 
Smith's cart hes runned ower a laady 
1 the holler laane, and they ha' ta'en 
the body up inter your chaumber, and 
they be all a-callin' for ye. 

Bora. The body ! — Heavens ! I 
come ! 

Harold. But you are trembling. 

Allow me to go with you to the farm. 

[Exeunt. 
Enter Dobson. 

Dobson. What feller wur it as 'a' 
been a-talkin' fur haafe an hour wi' 
my Dora ? {Looking after Mm.) Seeams 
I ommost knaws the back on 'im — 
drest like a gentleman, too. Damn all 
gentleman, says I ! I should ha' thowt 
they'd hed anew o' gentlefoalk, as I 
telled 'er to-daay when she fell foul 
upo' me. 456 

Minds ma o' summun. I could swear 
to that; but that be all one, fur I 
haates 'im afoor I knaws what 'e be. 
Theer ! he turns round. Philip Hedgar 
o' Soomerset! Philip Hedgar o' 
Soomerset ! — Noa — yeas — thaw the 
feller's gone and maade such a litter 
of his faace. 464 

Eh lad, if it be thou, I'll Philip 
tha! a-plaayin' the saame gaame wf 
my Dora — I '11 Soomerset tha ! 

I 'd like to drag 'im thrufl theherse- 
pond, and she to bea-lookin' at it. I 'd 
like to leather 'im black and blue, and 
she to be a-laughin' at it. I'd like to 
fell 'im as dead as a bullock ! 472 

( Clenching Ms fist. ) 

But what 'ud she saay to that ? She 
telled me once not to meddle wi' 'im, 
and now she be fallen out wi' ma, and 
I can't coom at 'er. 

It mun be Mm. Noa ! Fur she 'd 
niver'a' been talkin* haafe an hour wi' 
the divil 'at killed her oan sister, or 
she beant Dora Steer. 480 

Yeas ! Fur she niver knawed 'is f aace 
when 'e wur 'ere afoor ; but I '11 maake 
'er knaw ! I '11 maake 'er knaw ! 
Enter Harold. 

Naay, but I mun git out on 'is waay 
now, or I shall be the death on 'im. 

[Exit. 



Harold. How the clown glared at 

me ! that Dobbins, is it, 
With whom I used to jar ? but can he 

trace me 
Thro' rive years' absence, and my 

change of name, 
The tan of Southern summers and the 

beard ? 
I may as well avoid him. 

Ladylike ! 
Lilylike in her stateliness and sweet- 
ness ! 491 
How came she by it ? — a daughter of 

the fields. 
This Dora ! 
She gave her hand, unask'd, at the 

farm-gate ; 
I almost think she half return' d the 

pressure 
Of mine. What, I that held the orange 

blossom 
Dark as the yew ? but may not those, 

who march 
Before their age, turn back at times, 

and make 
Courtesy to custom ? and now the 

stronger motive, 
Misnamed free-will — the crowd would 

call it conscience — 500 

Moves me — to what ? I am dreaming ; 

for the past 
Look'd thro' the present, Eva's eyes 

thro' hers — 
A spell upon me ! Surely I loved Eva 
More than I knew ! or is it but the past 
That brightens in retiring? O, last 

night 
Tired, pacing my new lands at Little- 

chester, 
I dozed upon the bridge, and the black 

river 
Flow'd thro' my dreams — if dreams 

they were. She rose 
From the foul flood and pointed toward 

the farm, 
And her cry rang to me across the 

years, 510 

'I call you, Philip Edgar, Philip 

Edgar ! 
Come, you will set all right again, and 

father 
Will not die miserable.' I could make 

his age 
A comfort to him — so be more at peace 
With mine own self. Some of my 

former friends 



ACT III 



THE PROMISE OF MAY 



9*5 






"Would find my logic faulty ; let thein. 

Color 
Flows thro' my life again, and I have 

lighted 
On a new pleasure. Anyhow we must 
Move in the line of least resistance 

when 
The stronger motive rules. 

But she hates Edgar. 
May not this Dobbins, or some other, 

spy 521 

Edgar in Harold ? Well then, I must 

make her 
Love Harold first, and then she will 

forgive 
Edgar for Harold's sake. She said 

herself 
She would forgive him, by and by, not 

now — 
For her own sake then, if not for mine 

— not now — 
But by and by. 

Enter Dobson behind. 

Dobson. By and by — eh, lad, dosta 
knaw this paaper ? Ye dropt it upo' 
the road. 'Philip Edgar, Esq.' Ay, 
you be a pretty squire. I ha' fun' ye 
out, I hev. Eh, lad, dosta knaw what 
tha means wi' by and by ? Fur if ye 
be goin' to sarve our Dora as ye sarved 
our Eva — then, by and by, if she 
weant listen to me when I be a-tryin' 
to saave 'er — if she weant — look to 
thy sen, for, by the Lord, I 'd think 
na moor o' maakin' an end o' tha nor 
a carrion craw — noa — thaw they 
hanged ma at 'Size fur it. 

Harold. Dobbins, I think ! 

Dobson. I beant Dobbins. 

Harold. JSTor am I Edgar, my good 
fellow. 

Dobson. Tha lies ! What hasta been 
saayin' to my Dora ? 

Harold. I have been telling her of 
the death of one Philip Edgar of Toft 
Hall, Somerset. 550 

Dobson. Tha lies! 

Harold (pulling out a newspaper). 
Well, my man, it seems that you 
can read. Look there — under the 
deaths. 

Dobson. ' O' the 17th, Philip Edgar, 
o' Toft Hall, Soomerset.' How coom 
thou to be sa like Mm, then ? 

Harold. Naturally enough ; for I 



am closely related to the dead man's 
family. 5 6o 

Dobson. An' 'ow coom thou by the 
letter to 'im ? 

Harold. Naturally again ; for, as I 
used to transact all his business for 
him, I had to look over his letters. 
Now then, see these (takes out letters). 
Half a score of them, all directed to 
me — Harold. 

Dobson. 'Arold ! 'Arold ! 'Arold, so 
they be. 57 o 

Harold. My name is Harold ! Good 
day, Dobbins! [Exit. 

Dobson. 'Arold ! The feller's clean 
daazed, an' maazed, an' maated, an' 
muddled ma. Dead ! It mun be true, 
fur it wur i' print as black as owt. 
Naay, but 'Good daay, Dobbins.' 
Why, that wur the very twang on 
'im. Eh, lad, but whether thou be 
Hedgar, or Hedgar' s business man, 
thou lies n't naw business 'ere wi' my 
Dora, as I knaws on, an' whether thou 
calls thysen Hedgar or Harold, if thou 
stick to she I'll stick to thee — stick 
to tha like a weasel to a rabbit, I will. 
Ay ! and I 'd like to shoot tha like a 
rabbit an' all. ' Good daay, Dobbins.' 
Dang tha ! 588 



ACT III 

Scene. — A Koom in Steer's House. 
Door leading into Bedroom at 

THE BACK. 

Dora (ringing a handbell). Milly ! 

Enter Milly. 

Milly. The little 'ymn ? Yeas, 
Miss; but I wur so ta'en up wi' lead- 
in* the owd man about all the blessed 
murnin 'at I ha' nobbut lamed mysen 
haafe on it. 

man, forgive thy mortal foe. 

Nor ever strike him blow for blow ; 

For all the souls on earth that live 

To be forgiven must forgive. 10 

Forgive him seventy times and seven ; 

For all the blessed souls in heaven 

Are both forgivers and forgiven. 

But I '11 git the book age-in, and larn 
mysen the rest, and saay it to ye al'oor 



gi6 



THE PROMISE OF MAY 



ACT III 



dark ; ye ringed fur that, Miss, did n't 
ye ? 

Dora. No, Milly ; but if the farm- 
ing-men be come for their wages, to 
send them up to me. 20 

Mill//. Yeas, Miss. [Exit. 

Dora (sitting at desk counting money). 
Enough at any rate for the present, 
(En ter Farming Men.) Good afternoon, 
my friends. I am sorry Mr. Steer still 
continues too unwell to attend to you, 
but the schoolmaster looked to the 
paying you your wages when I was 
away, didn't he ? 

Men. Yeas ; and thanks to ye. 30 

Dora. Some of our workmen have 
left us, but he sent me an alphabetical 
list of those that remain, so, Allen, I 
may as well begin with you. 

Allen {with his hand to his ear). 
Halfabitical ! Taake one o' the young 
uns fust, Miss, fur I be a bit deaf, and. 
I wur hallus scaared by a big word ; 
leastwaays, I should be wi' a lawyer. 

Dora. I spoke of your names, Allen, 
as they are arranged here {shows book) 
— according to their first letters. 42 

Allen. Letters! Yeas, I sees now. 
Them be what they larns the childer' 
at school, but I were burn afoor 
schoolin'-time. 

Dora. But, Allen, tho' you can't 
read, you could whitewash that cot- 
tage of yours where your grandson 
had the fever. 50 

Allen. I '11 hev it done o' Monday. 

Dora. Else if the fever spread, the 
parish will have to thank you for it. 

Allen. Mea ? why, it be the Lord's 
doin, noan o' mine; d'ye think I'd 
gi'e 'em the fever? But I thanks ye 
all the saame, Miss. (Takes money.) 

Dora (calling out names). Higgins, 
Jackson, Luscombe, Xokes, Oldham, 
Skipworth ! (All take money.) Did 
you find that you worked at all the 
worse upon the cold tea than you 
would have done upon the beer ? 63 

Higgins. Noa, Miss ; we worked 
naw wuss upo' the cowd tea ; but 
we'd ha' worked better upo' the beer. 

Dora. Come, come, you worked 
well enough, and I am much obliged 
to all of you. There's for you, and 
you, and you. Count the money and 
see if it Vail right. 71 



Men. All right, Miss ; and thank 
ye kindly. 

[Exeunt Luscombe, Nokes, Old- 
ham, Skipworth. 

Dora. Dan Smith, my father and I 
forgave you stealing our coals. 

[Dan Smith advances to Dora. 

Dan Smith (bellowing). Whoy, O 
lor, Miss ! that wur sa long back, and 
the walls sa thin, and the winders 
brokken, and the weather sa cowd, 
and my missus a-gittin' ower 'er lyin'- 
in. 81 

Dora. Didn't I say that we had 
forgiven you ? But, Dan Smith, they 
tell me that you — and you have six 
children — spent all your last Satur- 
day's wages at the ale-house ; that you 
were stupid drunk all Sunday, and so 
ill in consequence all Monday that you 
did not come into the hay-field. Why 
should I pay you your full wages ? 90 

Dan Smith. I be read}' to taake the 
pledge. 

Dora. And as ready to break it 
again. Besides, it was you that were 
driving the cart — and I fear you were 
tipsy then, too — when you lamed the 
lady in the hollow lane. 97 

Dan Smith (belloicing). O lor, Miss! 
noa, noa, noa ! Ye sees the holler laane 
be hallus sa dark i' the arternoon, and 
wheere the big esh-tree cuts athurt it, 
it gi'es a turn like, and 'ow should I 
see to laame the laady, and mea 
coomin' along pretty sharp an' all ? 

Dora. Well, there are your wages ; 
the next time you waste them at a pot- 
house vou get no more from me. 
(Exit Dan Smith.) Sally Allen, you 
worked for Mr. Dobson, did n't you? 

Sally (advancing). Yeas, Miss; but 
he wur so rough wi' ma, I couldn't 
abide 'im. 102 

Dora. Why should he be rough with 
you ? You are as good as a man in the 
hay-field. What 's become of your 
brother ? 

Sally. 'Listed for a soiidger, Miss, i' 
the Queen's Real Hard Tillery. 

Dora. And your sweetheart — when 
are you and he to be married ? no 

Sally. At Michaelmas, Miss, please 
God. 

Dora. You are an honest pair. I will 
come to your wedding. 



ACT III 



THE PROMISE OF MAY 



917 



Sally. An' I thanks ye fur that, 
Miss, moor nor fur the waage. 

[Going — returns.) 'A cotched ma 
about the waaist, Miss, when 'e wur 
'ere afoor, an' axed ma to be 'is little 
sweet' art, an' soa I knaw'd 'im when 
I seed 'im agean an' I telled feyther on 
'im. 122 

Dora. What is all this, Allen ? 

Allen. Why, Miss Dora, mea and 
my maates, us three, we wants to hev 
three words wi' ye. 

Higgins^ That be 'im, and mea, 
Miss. 

Jackson. An' mea, Miss. 129 

Allen. An' we weant mention naw 
naames, we 'd as lief talk o' the divil 
afoor ye as 'im, fur they says the mas- 
ter goas clean off his 'ead when he 'ears 
the naame on 'im ; but us three, arter 
Sally' d telled us on 'im, we fun' 'im out 
a-walkin' i' West Field wi' a white 'at, 
nine o'clock, upo' Tuesday murnin', 
and all on us, wi' your leave, we 
wants to leather 'im. 

Dora. Who? 140 

Allen. Him as did the mischief here, 
five year' sin'. 

Dora. Mr. Edgar ? 

Allen. Theer, Miss ! You ha' naamed 
'im — not me. 

Dora. He's dead, man — dead ; gone 
to his account — dead and buried. 

Allen. I beant sa sewer o' that, fur 
Sally knaw'd 'im. Now then ? 

Dora. Yes ; it was in the Somerset- 
shire papers. 151 

Allen. Then yon mun be his brother, 
an' we '11 leather 'im. 

Dora. I never heard that he had a 
brother. Some foolish mistake of 
Sally's ; but what ! would you beat a 
man for his brother's fault ? That were 
a wild justice indeed. Let bygones be 
bygones. Go home ! Good-night ! {All 
exeunt.) I have once more paid them 
all. The work of the farm will go on 
still, but for how long ? We are almost 
at the bottom of the well : little more 
to be drawn from it — and what then ? 
Encumbered as we are, who would 
lend us anything ? We shall have to 
sell all the land, which father, for a 
whole life, has been getting together, 
again, and that, I am sure, would be 
the death of him. What am I to do ? 



Farmer Dobson, were I to marry him, 
has promised to keep our heads" above 
water ; and the man has doubtless a 
good heart, and a true and lasting love 
for me ; yet — though I can be sorry 
for him — as the good Sally says, ' I 
can't abide him' — almost brutal, and 
matched with my Harold is like a 
hedge thistle by a garden rose. But 
then, he, too — will he ever be of one 
faith with his wife V which is my 
dream of a true marriage. Can I fancy 
him kneeling with me, and uttering 
the same prayer ; standing up side by 
side with me, and singing the same 
hymn ? I fear not. Have I done wisely, 
then, in accepting him ? But may not 
a girl's love-dream have too much ro- 
mance in it to be realized all at once, 
or altogether, or anywhere but in hea- 
ven ? And yet I had once a vision of a 
pure and perfect marriage, where the 
man and the woman, only differing as 
the stronger and the weaker, should 
walk hand in hand together down this 
valley of tears, as they call it so truly, 
to the grave at the bottom, and lie 
down there together in the darkness 
which would seem but for a moment, 
to be wakened again together by the 
light of the resurrection, and no more 
partings for ever and for ever. ( Walks 
uj) and doicn. She sings. ) 203 

happy lark, that warblest high 

Above thy lowly nest, 
O brook, that brawlest merrily by 

Thro' fields that once were blest, 
O tower spiring to the sky, 

O graves in daisies drest, 
Love and Life, how weary am I, 210 

And how I long for rest ! 

There, there, I am a fool ! Tears ! I 
have sometimes been moved to tears 
by a chapter of fine writing in a novel ; 
but what have I to do with tears 
now ? All depends on me — father, 
this poor girl, the farm, everything ; 
and they both love me — I am ah in 
all to both ; and he loves me too, 1 am 
quite sure of that. Courage, courage! 
and all will go well. {(Joes to bedroom 
door ; opens it.) How dark your room 
is! Let me bring you in here where 
there is still full daylight. (Brings Eva 
forward.) Why, you look better. 225 
Em. And I feel bo much better that 



918 



THE PROMISE OF MAY 



ACT III 



I trust I may be able by and by to 
help you in the business of the farm ; 
but I must not be known yet. Has 
any one found me out, Dora ? 230 

Dora. O, no ; you kept your* veil 
too close for that when they carried 
you in ; since then, no one has seen 
you but myself. 

Eva. Yes — this Milly. 

Dora. Poor blind father's little 
guide, Milly, who came to us three 
years after you were gone, how should 
she know you ? But now that you 
have been brought to us as it were 
from the grave, dearest Eva, and have 
been here so long, will you not speak 
with father to-day ? 243 

Eva. Do you think that I may ? 
No, not yet. I am not equal to it yet. 

Dora. Why? Do you -still suffer 
from your fall in the hollow lane ? 

Eva. Bruised ; but no bones broken. 

Dora. I have always told father that 
the huge old ash- tree there would 
cause an accident some day; but he 
would never cut it down, because one 
of the Steers had planted it there in 
former times. 254 

Eva. If it had killed one of the 
Steers there the other day, it might 
have been better for her, for him, and 
for you. 

Dora. Come, come, keep a good 
heart ! Better for me ! that 's good. 
How better for me ? 261 

Eva. You tell me you have a lover. 
Will he not fly from you if he learn 
the story of my shame and that I am 
still living ? 

Dora. So ; I am sure that when we 
are married he will be willing that 
you and father should live with us ; 
for, indeed, he tells me that he met 
you once in the old times, and was 
much taken with you, my dear. 271 

Eva. Taken with me ; who was he ? 
Have you told him I am here ? 

Dora. No ; do you wish it ? 

Eva. See, Dora ; you yourself are 
ashamed of me {weeps), and I do not 
wonder at it. 277 

Dora. But I should wonder at my- 
self if it were so. Have we not been 
all in all to one another from the time 
when we first peeped into the bird's 
nest, waded in the brook, ran after the 



butterflies, and prattled to each other 
that we would marry fine gentlemen, 
and played at being fine ladies ? 

Eva. That last was my father's 
fault, poor man. And this lover of 
yours — this Mr. Harold — is a gentle- 
man ? 289 

Dora. That he is, from head to foot. 
I do believe I lost my heart to him the 
very first time we met, and I love him 
so much — 

Eva. Poor Dora ! 

Dora. That I dare not tell him how 
much I love him. 

Eva. Better not. Has he offered you 
marriage, this gentleman ? 

Dora. Could I love him else ? 299 

Eva. And are you quite sure that 
after marriage this gentleman will not 
be shamed of his poor farmer's daugh- 
ter among the ladies in his drawing- 
room ? 

Dora. Shamed of me in a drawing- 
room ! Was n't Miss Vavasour, our 
schoolmistress at Littlechester, a lady 
born ? Were not our fellow -pupils all 
ladies? Wasn't dear mother herself at 
least by one side a lady ? Can't I speak 
like a lady ; pen a letter like a lady ; 
talk a little French like a lady ; play 
a little like a lady ? Can't a girl when 
she loves her husband, and he her, 
make herself anything he wishes her 
to be ? Shamed of me in a drawing- 
room, indeed ! See here ! * I hope your 
lordship is quite recovered of your 
gout ? ' {Curtsies.) ' Will your lady- 
ship ride to cover to-day? {Curtsies.) 
I can recommend our Voltigeur. ' ' I am 
sorry that we could not attend your 
grace's party on the 10th ! ' {Curtsies.) 
There, I am glad my nonsense has 
made you smile ! 325 

Eva. I have heard that ' your lord- 
ship,' and 'your ladyship,' and 'your 
grace ' are all growing old-fashioned ! 

Dora. But the love of sister for 
sister can never be old-fashioned. I 
have been unwilling to trouble you 
with questions, but you seem some- 
what better to-day. We found a let- 
ter in your bedroom torn into bits. 
I could n't make it out. What was 
it ? 336 

Eva. From him! from him! He 
said we had been most happy to- 



ACT III 



THE PROMISE OF MAY 



919 



gether, and he trusted that some time 
we should meet again, for he had not 
forgotten his promise to come when I 
called him. But that was a mockery, 
you know, for he gave me no address, 
and there was no word of marriage ; 
and, O Dora, he signed himself ' Yours 
gratefully ' — fancy, Dora, — ' grate- 
fully ' ! ' Yours gratefully ' ! 

Dora. Infamous wretch! (Aside.) 
Shall I tell her he is dead ? No ; she 
is still too feeble. 350 

Eva. Hark ! Dora, some one is com- 
ing. I cannot and I will not see any- 
body. 

Dora. It is only Milly. 

Enter Milly, with basket of roses. 

Weil, Milly, why do you come in so 
roughly? The sick lady here might 
have been asleep. 

Milly. Please, Miss, Mr. Dobson 
telled me to saay he 's browt some of 
Miss Eva's roses for the sick laady to 
smell on. 361 

Dora. Take them, dear. Say that 
the sick lady thanks him ! Is he here ? 

Milly. Yeas, Miss ; and he wants 
to speak to ye partic'lar. 

Dora. Tell him I cannot leave the 
sick lady just yet. 

Milly. Yeas, Miss ; but he says he 
wants to tell ye summut very par- 
tic'lar. 370 

Dora. Not to-day. What are you 
staying for? 

Milly. Why, Miss, I be afeard I 
shall set him a-sw earing like ony think. 

Dora. And what harm will that do 
you, so that you do not copy his bad 
manners ? Go, child. (Exit Milly.) 
But, Eva, why did you write ' Seek 
me at the bottom of the river ' ? 379 

Eva. Why ? because I meant it ! 

— that dreadful night ! that lonely 
walk to Littlechester, the rain beating 
in my face all the way, dead midnight 
when I came upon the bridge ; the 
river, black, slimy, swirling under me 
in the lamplight, by the rotten wharfs 

— but I was so mad that I mounted 
upon the parapet — 

Dora. You make me shudder ! 389 
Eva. To fling myself over, when I 
heard a voice, ' Girl, what are you do- 
ing there ? ' It was a Sister of Mercy, 
come from the death-bed of a pauper, 



who had died in his misery blessing 
God, and the Sister took me to her 
house, and bit by bit — for she pro- 
mised secrecy — I told her all. 

Dora. And what then ? 39 8 

Eva. She would have persuaded me 
to come back here, but I couldn't. 
Then she got me a place as nursery 
governess, and when the children grew 
too old for me, and I asked her once 
more to help me, once more she said, 
1 Go home ; ' but I had n't the heart or 
face to do it. And then — what would 
father say? — I sank so low that I 
went into service — the drudge of a 
lodging-house — and when the mis- 
tress died, and I appealed to the Sister 
again, her answer — I think I have it 
about me — yes, there it is! 412 

Dora (reads). ' My dear Child, — I 
can do no more for you. I have done 
wrong in keeping your secret; your 
father must be now in extreme old 
age. Go back to him and ask his 
forgiveness before he dies. Sister 
Agatha.' Sister Agatha is right. 
Don't you long for father's forgive- 
ness ? 421 

Eva. I would almost die to have it ! 

Dora. And he may die before he 
gives it ; may drop off any day, any 
hour. You must see him at once. 
(Rings bell. Enter Milly.) Milly, my 
dear, how did you leave Mr. Steer ? 

Milly. He 's been a-moanin' and 
a-groanin' in 'is sleep, but I thinks he 
be wakkenin' oop. 430 

Dora. Tell him that I and the lady 
here wish to see him. You see she is 
lamed, and cannot go down to him. 

Milly. Yeas, Miss, I will. 

[Exit Milly. 

Dora. I ought to prepare you. You 
must not expect to find our father as 
he was five years ago. He is much 
altered ; but I trust that your return 
— for you know, my dear, you were 
always his favorite — will give him, 
as they say, a new lease of life. 441 

Eva (clinging to Dora). O, Dora, 
Dora ! 

Enter Steer led by Milly. 

Steer. Hes the cow cawved ? 

Dora. No, father. 

Steer. Be the colt dead? 

Dora. No, father. 



920 



THE PROMISE OF MAY 



ACT III 



Steer. He wur sa bellows'd out wf 
the wind this murnin', 'at I tell'd 'em 
to gallop 'im. Be lie dead ? 450 

Dora. Not that I know. 

Steer. What hasta sent fur me, 
then, fur? 

Dora {taking Steer's arm). Well, 
father, I have a surprise for you. 

Steer. I ha' niver been surprised 
but once i' my life, and I went blind 
upon it. 

Dora. Eva has come home. 

Steer. Hoam? fro' the bottom o' 
the river ? 

Dora. No, father, that was a mis- 
take. She's here again. 463 

Steer. The Steers was all gentle- 
foalks i' the owd times, an' I worked 
early an' laate to maake 'em all gen- 
tlefoalks agean. The land belonged 
to the Steers i' the owd times, an' it 
belongs to the Steers agean : I bowt 
it back agean ; but I could n't buy my 
darter back agean when she lost her- 
sen, could I? I eddicated boath on 
'em to marry gentlemen, an' one on 
'em went an' lost hersen i' the river. 

Dora. No, father, she 's here. 475 

Steer. Here ! she moant coom here. 
What would her mother saay ? If it 
be her ghoast, we mun abide it. We 
can't keep a ghoast out. 

Eva (falling at Ms feet). O, forgive 
me ! forgive me ! 48 j 

Steer. Who said that? Taake me 
awaay, little gell. It be one o' my 
bad daays. 

[Exit Steer led by Milly. 

Dora (smoothing Eva's forehead). Be 
not so cast down, my sweet Eva. You 
heard him say it was one of his bad 
days. He will be sure to know you 
to-morrow. 489 

Era. It is almost the last of my bad 
days, I think. I am very faint. I 
must lie down. Give me your arm. 
Lead me back again. 

[Dora takes Eva into inner room. 

Enter Milly. 

Milly. Miss Dora ! Miss Dora ! 

Dora (returning and leaving the bed- 
room door ajar). Quiet ! Quiet ! What 
is it? 

Milly. Mr. 'Arold, Miss. 

Dora. Below ? 499 



Milly. Yeas, Miss. He be saayin' 
a word to the owd man, but he '11 coom 
up if ye lets 'im. 

Dora. Tell him, then, that I'm 
waiting for him. 
Milly. Yeas, Miss. [Exit. 

[Dora sits pensively and waits. 
Enter Harold. 
Harold. You are pale, my Dora! 
but the ruddiest cheek 
That ever charm'd the plowman of 

your wolds 
Might wish its rose a lily, could it look 
But half as lovely. I was speaking 

with 
Your father, asking his consent — you 
wish' d me — 510 

That we should marry. He would 

answer nothing, 
I could make nothing of him ; but, 

my flower, 
You look so weary and so worn! 

What is it 
Has put you out of heart ? 

Dora. It puts me in heart 

Again to see you ; but indeed the state 
Of my poor father puts me out of heart. 
Is yours yet living ? 
Harold. No — I told you. 

Dora. When ? 

Harold. Confusion ! — Ah well, 
well ! the state we all 
Must come to in our spring-and-winter 

world 
If we live long enough! and poor 
Steer looks 520 

The very type of Age in a picture, 

bow'd 
To the earth he came from, to the 

grave he goes to, 
Beneath the burthen of years. 

Dora. More like the picture 

Of Christian in my ' Pilgrim's Progress' 

here, 
Bow'd to the dust beneath the burthen 
of sin. 
Harold. Sin ! What sin ? 
Dora. Not his own. 

Harold. That nursery -tale 

Still read, then ? 
Dora. Yes ; our carters and our 

shepherds 
Still find a comfort there. 
Harold. Carters and shepherds! 

Dora. Scorn ! I hate scorn. A soul 
with no religion — 



ACT III 



THE PROMISE OF MAY 



921 



My mother used to say that such a 

one 530 

Was without rudder, anchor, compass 

— might be 
Blown every way with every gust and 

wreck 
On any rock ; and tho' you are good 

and gentle, 
Yet if thro' any want — 

Harold. Of this religion ? 

Child, read a little history, you will 

find 
The common brotherhood of man has 

been 
Wrong'd by the cruelties of his reli- 
gions 
More than could ever have happen'd 

thro' the want 
Of any or all of them. 

Dora. But, O dear friend, 

If thro' the want of any — I mean the 

true one — 540 

And pardon me for saying it — you 

should ever 
Be tempted into doing what might 

seem 
Not altogether worthy of you, I think 
That I should break my heart, for you 

have taught me 
To love you. 
Harold. What is this? some one 

been stirring 
Against me ? he, your rustic amorist, 
The polish'd Damon of your pastoral 

here, 
This Dobson of your idyll ? 

Dora. No, sir, no! 

Did you not tell me he was crazed 

with jealousy, 
Had threaten'd even your life, and 

would say anything ? 550 

Did /not promise not to listen to him, 
Nor even to see the man ? 

Harold. Good ; then what is it 

That makes you talk so dolefully ? 

Dora. I told you — 

My father. Well, indeed, a friend just 

now, 
One that has been much wrong'd, 

whose griefs are mine, 
Was warning me that if a gentleman 
Should wed a farmer's daughter, he 

would be 
Sooner or later shamed of her among 
The ladies, born his equals. 

Harold. More fool he ! 



What, I that have been call'cl a So- 
cialist, 560 
A Communist, a Nihilist — what you 

will ! — 
Dora. What are all these ? 
Harold. Utopian idiotcies. 

They did not last three Junes. Such 

rampant weeds 
Strangle each other, die, and make the 

soil 
For Caesars, Cromwells, and Napoleons 
To root their power in. I have freed 

myself 
From all such dreams, and some will 

say because 
I have inherited my uncle. Let them. 
But — shamed of you, my empress ! I 

should prize 569 

The pearl of beauty, even if I found it 
Dark with the soot of slums. 

Dora. But I can tell you, 

We Steers are of old blood, tho' we be 

fallen. 
See there our shield. (Pointing to arms 

on mantelpiece.] 

For I have heard the Steers 
Had land in Saxon times ; and your 

own name 
Of Harold sounds so English and so 

old 
I am sure you must be proud of it. 

Harold. Not I ! 

As yet I scarcely feel it mine. I took 

it 
For some three thousand acres. I have 

land now 
And wealth, and lay both at your feet. 
Dora. And what was 

Your name before ? 

Harold. Come, come, my girl. 

enough 5S0 

Of this strange talk. I love you, and 

you me. 
True, I have held opinions, hold some 

still, 
Which you would scarce approve of ; 

for all that, 
I am a man not prone to jealousies, 
Caprices, humors, moods, but very 

ready 
To make allowances, and mighty slow 
To feel offences. Nay, 1 do believe 
I could forgive — well, almost any- 
thing — 
And that more freely than your formal 

priest. 



922 



THE PROMISE OF MAY 



ACT III 



Because I know more fully than he can 
What poor earthworms are all and 
each of us, 59 1 

Here crawling in this boundless Na- 
ture. Dora, 
If marriage ever brought a woman 

happiness 
I doubt not I can make you happy. 

Bora. You make me 

Happy already. 

Harold. And I never said 

As much before to any woman living. 
Bora. No? 

Harold. No ! by this true kiss, you 
are the first 
I ever have loved truly. 

[They kiss each other. 
Eva (icith a wild cry). Philip Edgar ! 
Harold. The phantom cry! You — 

did you hear a cry ? 
Bora. She must be crying out ' Ed- 
gar ' in her sleep. 600 
Harold. Who must be crying out 

' Edgar ' in her sleep ? 
Bora. Your pardon for a minute. 

She must be waked. 
Harold. Who must be waked ? 
Bora. I am not deaf; you fright 
me. 
What ails you ? 
Harold. Speak. 

Bora. You know her, Eva. 

Harold. Eva ! 

[Eva opens the door and stands in 
the entry. 
She! 
Eva. Make her happy, then, and I 
forgive you. [Falls dead. 

Bora. Happy ! What ? Edgar ? Is it 
so ? Can it be ? 
They told me so. Yes, yes ! I see it all 

now. 
O, she has fainted! Sister, Eva, sister! 
He is yours again — he will \o\eyou 

again ; 

I give him back to you again. Look 

up ! 610 

One word, or do but smile ! Sweet, do 

you hear me ? 

[Puts her hand on Eva's heart. 

There, there — the heart, O God! — 

the poor young heart 
Broken at last — all still — and no- 
thing left 
To live for. 

[Falls on body of her sister. 



Harold. Living — dead — She said 

' all still. 
Nothing to live for/ 

She — she knows me — now — 
(A pause. ) 
She knew me from the first, she jug- 
gled with me, 
She hid this sister, told me she was 

dead — 
I have wasted pity on her — not dead 

now — 
No! acting, playing on me, both of 

them. 
They drag the river for her ! no, not 

they ! 620 

Playing on me — not dead now — a 

swoon — a scene — 
Yet — how she made her wail as for 

the dead ! 

Enter Milly. 

Milly. Please, Mister 'Arold. 
Harold (roughly). Well ? 

Milly. The wd man 's coom'd agean 
to 'issen, an' wants 
To hev a word wi' ye about the mar- 
riage. 
Harold. The what ? 
Milly. The marriage. 
Harold. The marriage ? 

Milly. Yeas, the marriage. 

Granny says marriages be maade i' 
'eaven. 
Harold. She lies ! They are made in 
hell. Child, can't you see ? 
Tell them to fly for a doctor. 

Milly. O, law — yeas, Sir. 

I '11 run fur 'im my sen. [Exit. 

Harold. All silent there, 

Yes, deathlike ! Dead ? I dare not 

look. If dead, 631 

Were it best to steal away, to spare 

myself, 
And her too, pain, pain, pain ? 

My curse on all 
This world of mud, onfall its idiot 

gleams 
Of pleasure, all the foul fatalities 
That blast our natural passions into 
pains ! 

Enter Dobson. 

Bdbson. You, Master Hedgar, 
Harold, or whativer 
They calls ye, for I warrants that ye 

goas 



: 



ACT III 



THE PROMISE OF MAY 



9 2 3 



By haafe a scoor o' naames — out o' 
the chaumber ! 

[Dragging him past the body. 
Harold. Not that way, man ! Curse 
on your brutal strength ! 
I cannot pass that way. 

Dobson. Out o' the chaumber ! 

I '11 mash tha into nowt. 
Harold. The mere wild-beast ! 

Dobson. Out o' the chaumber, dang 

tha! 
Harold. Lout, churl, clown ! 
[While they are shouting and 
struggling Dora rises and comes 
beticeen them. 
Dora (to Dobson). Peace, let him be ; 
it is the chamber of Death ! 
Sir, you are tenfold more a gentle- 
man, 
A hundred times more worth a wo- 
man's love, 
Than this, this — but I waste no words 

upon him : 
His wickedness is like my wretched- 
ness — 
Beyond all language. 
(To Harold.) You — you see her 

there ! 
Only fifteen when first you came on 
her, 650 

And then the sweetest flower of all 

the wolds, 
So lovely in the promise of her May, 
So winsome in her grace and gaiety, 
So loved by all the village people 

here, 

So happy in herself and in her home — 

Dobson (agitated). Theer, theer ! 

ha' done. I can't abear to see 

her. [Exit. 

Dora. A child, and all as trustful 

as a child ! 

Five years of shame and suffering 

broke the heart 
That only beat for you ; and he, the 

father, 

Thro' that dishonor which you brought 

upon us, 660 

Has lost his health, his eyesight, even 

his mind. 

Harold (covering his face). Enough! 



Dora. It seem'd so ; only there 
was left 
A second daughter, and to her you 

came 
Yeiling one sin to act another. 

Harold, No ! 

You wrong me there ! hear, hear me ! 
I wish'd, if you — [Pauses. 

Dora. If I — 

Harold. Could love me, could be 
brought to love me 
As I loved you — 

Dora. What then ? 

Harold. I wish'd, I hoped 

To make, to make — 
Dora. What did you hope to make ? 
Harold. 'T were best to make an 
end of my lost life. 
O Dora, Dora ! 
Dora. What did you hope to 
make ? 670 

Harold Make, make ! I cannot 
find the word — forgive it — 
Amends. 

Dora. For what ? to whom ? 
Harold. To him, to you ! 

[Falling at her feet. 
Dora. To him ! to one ! 

No, not with all your wealth, 
Your land, your life ! Out in the 

fiercest storm 
That ever made earth tremble — he, 

nor I — 
The shelter of your roof — not for one 

moment — 
Nothing from you ! 
Sunk in the deepest pit of pauperism, 
Push'd from all doors as if we bore the 

plague, 
Smitten with fever in the open field, 
Laid famine-stricken at the gates of 
Death — 6S1 

Nothing from you ! 

But she there — her last word 
Forgave — and I forgive you. If you 

ever 
Forgive yourself, you are even lower 

and baser 
Than even I can well believe you. 
Go ! 
[He lies at her feet. Curtain fall*. 



9 2 4 CROSSING THE BAR 



CROSSING THE BAR 

Sunset and evening star, 

And one clear call for me ! 
And may there be no moaning of the bar, 

When I put out to sea, 

But such a tide as moving seems asleep, 

Too full for sound and foam, 
When that which drew from out the boundless deep 

Turns again home. 

Twilight and evening bell. 

And after that the dark ! 
And may there be no sadness of farewell, 

When I embark ; 

For tho' from out our bourne of Time and Place 

The flood may bear me far, 
I hope to see my Pilot face to face 

When I have crost the bar. 



ADDITIONAL POEMS 



Note. — The poems which follow include all those which have been omitted by the 
author from his latest revised editions, or never acknowledged by him. They are' here 
printed because they have for the most part continued to have currency in America, 
although dropped from collective editions in England. 



TIMBUCTOO i 

1 Deep in that lion-haunted inland lies 
A mystic city, goal of high emprise.' 

Chapman. 

I stood upon the Mountain which o'er- 

looks 
The narrow seas, whose rapid inter- 
val 
Parts Afric from green Europe, when 

the Sun 
Had fall'n below th' Atlantic, and 

above 
The silent heavens were blench' d with 

faery light, 
Uncertain whether faery light or 

cloud, 
Flowing Southward, and the chasms 

of deep, deep blue 
Slumber' d unfathomable, and the stars 
Were flooded over with clear glory 

and pale. 
I gazed upon the sheeny coast beyond, 
There where the Giant of old Time 

infix'd 
The limits of his prowess, pillars 

high 
Long time erased from earth : even as 

the Sea 
When weary of wild inroad buildeth 

up 
Huge mounds whereby to stay his 

yeasty waves. 
And much I mused on legends quaint 

and old 
Which wlulome won the hearts of all 

on earth 

1 A Poem which obtained the Chancellor's 
Medal at the Cambridge Commencement, 
MDCCCXXIX. By A. Tennyson, of Tri- 
nity College. 



Toward their brightness, ev'n as flame 

draws air ; 
But had their being in the heart of 

man 
As air is th' life of flame: and thou 

wert then 
A center'd glory-circled memory, 
Divinest Atalantis, whom the waves 
Have buried deep, and thou of later 

name, 
Imperial Eldorado, roof d with gold : 
Shadows to which, despite all shocks 

of change, 
All on-set of capricious accident, 
Men clung with yearning hope which 

would not die. 
As when in some great city, where the 

walls 
Shake, and the streets with ghastly 

faces throng'd, 
Do utter forth- a subterranean voice, 
Among the inner columns far retired 
At midnight, in the lone Acropolis, 
Before the awful Genius of the place 
Kneels the pale Priestess in deep faith, 

the while 
Above her head the weak lamp dips 

and winks 
Unto the fearful summoning without : 
Nathless she ever clasps the marble 

knees, 
Bathes the cold hands with tears, and 

gazeth on 
Those eyes which wear no light but 

that wherewith 
Her phantasy informs them. 

Where are ye, 
Thrones of the Western wave, fair 

Islands green ? 
Where are your moonlight halls, your 

cedar n glooms, 
The blossoming abysses of your hills ? 



926 



ADDITIONAL POEMS 



Your flowering capes, and your gold- 
sanded bays 

Blown round with happy airs of odor- 
ous winds ? 

Where are the infinite w^ays, w T hich, 
seraph-trod, 

Wound thro' your great Elysian soli- 
tudes, 

Whose lowest deeps were, as with vis- 
ible love, 

Fill'd with Divine effulgence, circum- 
fused, 

Flowing between the clear and polish' d 
stems, 

And ever circling round their emerald 
cones 

In coronals and glories, such as gird 

The unfading foreheads of the Saints 
in Heaven ? 

For nothing visible, they say, had 
birth 

In that blest ground, but it was play'd 
about 

With its peculiar glory. Then I raised 

My voice and cried, ' Wide Afric, doth 
thy Sun 

Lighten, thy hills enfold a city as fair 

As those which starr'd the night o' the 
elder world ? 

Or is the rumour of thy Timbuctoo 

A dream as frail as those of ancient 
time ? ' 
A curve of whitening, flashing, ebb- 
ing light ! 

A rustling of white wings ! the bright 
descent 

Of a young Seraph ! and he stood be- 
side me 

There on the ridge, and look'd into 
my face 

With his unutterable, shining orbs. 

So that with hasty motion I did veil 

My vision with both hands, and saw 
before me 

Such colour'd spots as dance athwart 
the eyes 

Of those that gaze upon the noonday 
Sun. 

Girt with a zone of flashing gold be- 
neath 

His breast, and compass'd roundabout 
his brow 

With triple arch of ever-changing 
bows, 

And circled with the glory of living 
light 



And alternation of all hues, he stood. 
1 O child of man, why muse you 

here alone 
Upon the Mountain, on the dreams of 

old 
Which fill'd the earth with passing 

loveliness, 
Which flung strange music on the 

howling w T inds, 
And odours rapt from remote Para- 
dise? 
Thy sense is clogg'd with dull mortal- 
ity ; 
Thy spirit fetter'd with the bond of 

clay: 
Open thine eyes and see.' 

I look'd, but not 
"Upon his face, for it was wonderful 
With its exceeding brightness, and the 

light 
Of the great Angel Mind which look'd 

from out 
The starry glowing of his restless eyes. 
I f eU my soul grow mighty, and my 

spirit 
With supernatural excitation bound 
Within me, and my mental eye grew 

large 
With such a vast circumference of 

thought, 
That in my vanity I seem'd to stand 
Upon the outward verge and bound 

alone 
Of full beatitude. Each failing 

sense, 
As with a momentary flash of light, 
Grew thrillingly distinct and keen. I 

saw 
The smallest grain that dappled the 

dark earth, 
The indistinctest atom in deep air, 
The Moon's white cities, and the opal 

width 
Of her small glowing lakes, her silver 

heights 
Un visited with dew of vagrant cloud, 
And the unsounded, undescended 

depth 
Of her black hollows. The clear gal- 
axy 
Shorn of its hoary lustre, wonderful, 
Distinct and vivid with sharp points 

of light, 
Blaze within blaze, an unimagin'd 

depth 
And harmony of planet-girded suns 



TIMBUCTOO 



927 



And moon-encircled planets, wheel in 
wheel, 

Arch'd the wan sapphire. Nay — the 
hum of men, 

Or other things talking in unknown 
tongues, 

And notes of busy life in distant worlds 

Beat like a far wave on my anxious 
ear. 
A maze of piercing, trackless, thrill- 
ing thoughts, 

Involving and embracing each with 
each, 

Rapid as fire, inextricably link'd, 

Expanding momently with every sight 

And sound which struck the palpitat- 
ing sense, 

The issue of strong impulse, hurried 
through 

The riven rapt brain ; as when in 
some large lake 

From pressure of descendant crags, 
which lapse 

Disjointed, crumbling from their pa- 
rent slope 

At slender interval, the level calm 

Is ridg'd with restless and increasing 
spheres 

Which break upon each other, each 
th' effect 

Of separate impulse, but more fleet 
and strong 

Than its precursor, till the eye in vain 

Amid the wild unrest of swimming 
shade 

Dappled with hollow and alternate 
rise 

Of interpenetrated arc, would scan 

Definite round. 

I know not if I shape 

These things with accurate similitude 

From visible objects, for but dimly 
now, 

Less vivid than a half- forgotten dream, 

The memory of that mental excel- 
lence 

Comes o'er me, and it may be I 
entwine 

The indecision of my present mind 

With its past clearness, yet it seems to 
me 

As even then the torrent of quick 
thought 

Absorbed me from the nature of itself 

With its own fleetness. Where is he 
that, borne 



Ad own the sloping of an arrowy 
stream, 

Could link his shallop to the fleeting 
edge, 

And muse midway with philosophic 
calm 

Upon the wondrous laws which regu- 
late 

The fierceness of the bounding ele- 
ment? 
My thoughts which long had grov- 
eird in the slime 

Of this dull world, like dusky worms 
which house 

Beneath unshaken waters, but at once 

Upon some earth-awakening day of 
Spring 

Do pass from gloom to glory, and 
aloft 

Winnow the purple, bearing on both 
sides 

Double display of star-lit wings, which 
burn 

Fan-like and fibred with intensest 
bloom ; 

Ev'n so my thoughts, erewhile so low, 
now felt 

Unutterable buoyancy and strength 

To bear them upward through the 
trackless fields 

Of undefin'd existence far and free. 
Then first within the South me- 
thought I saw 

A wilderness of spires, and chrystal 
pile 

Of rampart upon rampart, dome on 
dome, 

Illimitable range of battlement 

On battlement, and the imperial 
height 

Of canopy o'ercanopied. 

Behind 

In diamond light upsprung the daz- 
zling peaks 

Of Pyramids, as far surpassing earth's 

As heaven than earth is fairer. Each 
aloft 

Upon his narrow'd eminence bore 
globes 

Of wheeling suns, or stars, or sem- 
blances 

Of either, showering circular abyss 

Of radiance. But the glory of the 
place 

Stood out a pillar'd front of burnish'd 
gold, 



928 



ADDITIONAL POEMS 



Interminably high, if gold it were 
Or metal more ether ial, and beneath 
Two doors of blinding brilliance, 

where no gaze 
Might rest, stood open, and the eye 

could scan, 
Through length of porch and* valve 

and boundless hall, 
Part of a throne of fiery flame, where- 

from 
The snowy skirting of a garment hung, 
And glimpse of multitudes of multi- 
tudes 
That minister'd around it — if I saw 
These things distinctly, for my human 

brain 
Stagger'd beneath the vision, and 

thick night 
Came down upon my eyelids, and I 

fell. 
With ministering hand he raised me 

up: 
Then with a mournful and ineffable 

smile, 
Which but to look on for a moment 

fill'd 
My eyes with irresistible sweet tears, 
In accents of majestic melody, 
Like a swoln river's gushings in still 

night 
Mingled with floating music, thus he 

spake : 
' There is no mightier Spirit than I 

to sway 
The heart of man : and teach him to 

attain 
By shadowing forth the Unattainable ; 
And step by step to scale that mighty 

stair 
Whose landing-place is wrapt about 

with clouds 
Of glory of heaven. 1 With earliest 

light of Spring, 
And in the glow of sallow Summerticle, 
And in red Autumn when the winds 

are wild 
With gambols, and when full-voiced 

Winter roofs 
The headland with inviolate white 

snow, 
I play about his heart a thousand 

ways, 
Visit his eyes with visions, and his 

ears 

1 ' Be ye perfect even as your Father in 
heaven is perfect.' 



With harmonies of wind and wave 

and wood, — 
Of winds which tell of waters, and of 

waters 
Betraying the close kisses of the 

wind — 
And win him unto me : and few there 

be 
So gross of heart who have not felt 

and known 
A higher than they see: They with 

dim eyes 
Behold me darkling. Lo ! I have 

given thee 
To understand my presence, and to 

feel 
My fulness ; I have fill'd thy lips with 

power. 
I have raised thee nigher to the spheres 

of heaven, 
Man's first, last home : and thou with 

• ravish' d sense 
Listenest the lordly music flowing 

from 
Th' illimitable years. I am the Spi- 
rit, 
The permeating life which courseth 

through 
All th' intricate and labyrinthine veins 
Of the great vine of Fable, which, 

outspread 
With growth of shadowing leaf and 

clusters rare, 
Reacheth to every corner under hea- 
ven, 
Deep-rooted in the living soil of truth ; 
So that men's hopes and fears take 

refuge in 
The fragrance of its complicated 

glooms, 
And cool impleached twilights. Child 

of man, 
See'st thou yon river, whose translu- 
cent wave, 
Forth issuing from the darkness, 

windeth through 
The argent streets o' "th' city, imaging 
The soft inversion of her tremulous 

domes, 
Her gardens frequent with the stately 

palm, 
Her pagods hung with music of sweet 

bells, 
Her obelisks of ranged chrysolite, 
Minarets and towers ? Lo ! how he 

passeth by, 



THE BURIAL OF LOVE 



929 



And gulphs himself in sands, as not 

enduring 
To carry through the world those 

waves, which bore 
The reflex of my city in their depths. 
Oh city ! oh latest throne ! where I 

was raised 
To be a mystery of loveliness 
Unto all eyes, the time is well-nigh 

come 
When I must render up this glorious 

home 
To keen Discovery: soon yon brilliant 

towers 
Shall darken with the waving of her 

wand ; 
Darken, and shrink and shiver into 

huts, 
Black specks amid a waste of dreary 

sand, 
Low-built, mud-wall'd, barbarian set- 
tlements. 
How chang'd from this fair city ! ' 

Thus far the Spirit : 
Then parted heaven-ward on the wing : 

and I 
Was left alone on Calpe, and the moon 
Had fallen from the night, and all 

was dark ! 



THE 'HOW' AJNTD THE 'WHY' 



I am any man's suitor, 
If any will be my tutor : 
Some say this life is pleasant, 
Some think it speedeth fast, 
In time there is no present, 
In eternity no future, 
In eternity no past. 
We laugh, we cry, we are born, we 

die, 
Who will riddle me the how and the 
why t 

The bulrush nods unto its brother. 
The wheatears whisper to each 
other : 
What is it they say ? what do they 

there ? 
Why two and two make four? why 

round is not square ? 
Why the rock stands still, and the light 
clouds tly ? 



Why the heavy oak groans, and the 

white willows sigh ? 
Why deep is not high, and high is not 

deep ? 
Whether we wake, or whether we 

sleep ? 
Whether we sleep, or whether we die ? 
How you are you ? why I am I ? 
Who will riddle me the how and the 

why f 

The world is somewhat ; it goes on 

somehow : 
But what is the meaning of then and 

now ? 
I feel there is something ; but how 

and what ? 
I know there is somewhat : but what 

and why ? 
I cannot tell if that somewhat be I. 
The little bird pipeth — ' why ? 

why ? ' 
In the summer woods when the sun 

falls low, 
And the great bird sits on the opposite 

bough, 
And stares in his face, and shouts 

' how ? how ? ' 
And the black owl scuds down the 

mellow twilight, 
And chants ' how ? how ? ' the whole 

of the night. 

Why the life goes when the blood is 

spilt ? 
What the life is? where the soul 

may lie ? 
Why a church is with a steeple built : 
And a house with a chimney-pot ? 
Who will riddle me the how and the 

what ? 
Who will riddle me the what and 

the why ? 



THE BURIAL OF LOVE 

His eyes in eclipse, 

Pale-cold his lips. 
The light of his hopes unfed. 

Mute his tongue, 

His bow unstrung 
With the tears he hath shed. 

Backward drooping his graceful 
head 

Love is dead : 



v\ 



93° 



ADDITIONAL POEMS 



His last arrow is sped ; 


Worn Sorrow sits by the moaning 


He hath not another dart ; 


wave, 


Go — carry him to his dark death- 


Beside her are laid 


bed; 


Her mattock and spade, 


Bury him in the cold, cold heart — 


For she hath half delved her own deep 


Love is dead. 


grave. 




Alone she is there : 


truest love ! art thou forlorn, 


The white clouds drizzle : her hair falls 


And unrevenged ? thy pleasant 


loose : 


wiles 


Her shoulders are bare ; 


Forgotten, and thine innocent 


Her tears are mixed with the beaded 


joy? 


dews. 


Shall hollow-hearted apathy, 




The cruellest form of perfect scorn, 


ii 


With languor of most hateful 


Death standeth by ; 


smiles, 


She will not die ; 


For ever write, 


With glazed eye 


In the withered light 


She looks at her grave : she cannot 


Of the tearless eye, 


sleep ; 


An epitaph that all may spy ? 


Ever alone 


No ! sooner she herself shall die. - 


She maketh her moan: 




She cannot speak : she can only weep r 


For her the showers shall not fall, 


For she will not hope. 


Nor the round sun shine that shineth 


The thick snow falls on her flake by 


to all ; 


flake, 


Her light shall into darkness change ; 


The dull wave mourns down 


For her the green grass shall not 


the slope, 


spring, 


The world will not change, and her 


Nor the rivers flow, nor the sweet 


heart will not break. 


birds sing, 




Till Love have his full revenge. 






SONG 


TO 


i 


Sainted Juliet ! dearest name ! 


The lintwhite and the throstlecock 


If to love be life alone, 


Have voices sweet and clear ; 


Divinest Juliet, 


All in the bloomed May. 


I love thee, and live ; and yet 


They from the blosmy brere 


Love unreturned is like the fragrant 


Call to the fleeting year, 


flame 


If that he would them hear 


Folding the slaughter of the sacrifice 


And stay. 


Offered to gods upon an altar- 


Alas ! that one so beautiful 


throne; 


Should have so dull an ear ! 


My heart is lighted at thine eyes, 




Changed into fire, and blown about 


ii 


with sighs. 


Fair year, fair year, thy children call 




But thou art deaf as death ; 




All in the bloomed May. 


SONG 


When thy light perisheth 




That from thee issueth, 


i 


Our life evanisheth : 


T THE glooming light 


0, stay ! 


Of middle night 


Alas ! that lips so cruel-dumb 


So cold and white, 


Should have so sweet a breath 



HERO TO LEANDER 



93i 



in 
Fair year, with brows of royal love 
Thou comest, as a king, 

All in the bloomed May. 
Thy golden largess fling, 
And longer hear us sing ; 
Though thou art fleet of wing, 

Yet stay. 
Alas ! that eyes so full of light 
Should be so wandering ! 



Thy locks are all of sunny sheen 
In rings of gold yronne, 1 

All in the bloomed May. 
We pri'thee pass not on ; 
If thou dost leave the sun, 
Delight is with thee gone. 

O, stay! 
Thou art the fairest of thy feres, 
We pri'thee pass not on. 



SONG 



Every day hath its night : 

Every night its morn : 
Thorough dark and bright 
Winged hours are borne ; 
Ah ! welaway ! 
Seasons flower and fade ; 
Golden calm and storm 
Mingle day by day. 
There is no bright form 
Doth not cast a shade — 
Ah! welaway! 



When we laugh, and our mirth 

Apes the happy vein, 
We're so kin to earth, 

Pleasaunce fathers pain — 
Ah ! welaway ! 
Madness laugheth loud : 
Laughter bringeth tears : 
Eyes are worn away 
Till the end of fears 
Cometh in the shroud, 
Ah ! welaway ! 

in 
All is change, woe or weal ; 
Joy is Sorrow's brother ; 
1 ' His crisps hair in ringis was vronne.' 
( Ihaucer, Knigntes Tale* 



Grief and gladness steal 
Symbols of each other : 
Ah ! welaway ! 
Larks in heaven's cope 
Sing : the culvers mourn 
All the livelong day. 
Be not all forlorn : 
Let us weep in hope — 
Ah ! welaway ! 



HERO TO LEANDER 

O go not yet, my love ! 

The night is dark and vast ; 
The white moon is hid in her heaven 
above, 
And the waves climb high and 
fast. 
O, kiss me, kiss me, once again, 

Lest thy kiss should be the last ! 
O kiss me ere we part ; 
Grow closer to my heart ! 
My heart is warmer surely than the 
bosom of the main. 
O joy ! O bliss of blisses ! 

My heart of hearts art thou. 
Come bathe me with thy kisses, 

My eyelids and my brow. 
Hark how the wild rain hiss 
And the loud sea roars below. 

Thy heart beats through thy rosy 
. limbs. 

So gladly doth it stir ; 
Thine eye in drops of gladness 
swims. 
I have bathed thee with the plea 
sant myrrh ; 
Thy locks an 1 dripping balm : 
Thou shalt not wander hence to 
night, 
I'll stay thee with my kisses. 
To-night the roaring brine 

Will rend thy golden tresses; 
The ocean with the morrow light 
Will be both blue and calm ; 
And the billow will embrace thee with 
a. kiss as soft as mine. 
No Western odors wander 

On the black and moaning sea. 
And when thou art dead. I.eander. 
My soul must follow thee ! 

O go not vet. my love I 

Thy voice is sweet and low . 






93 2 



ADDITIONAL POEMS 



The deep salt wave breaks in above 
Those marble steps below. 

The turret-stairs are wet 
That lead into the sea. 

Leander! go not yet. 

The pleasant stars have set : 

O, go not, go not yet, 
Or I will follow thee ! 



THE MYSTIC 

Angels have talked with him, and 

showed him thrones : 
Ye knew him not ; he was not one of 

Ye scorned him with an undiscerning 
scorn : 

Ye could not read the marvel in his 
eye, 

The still serene abstraction : he hath 
felt 

The vanities of after and before ; 

Albeit, his spirit and his secret heart 

The stern experiences of converse 
lives, 

The linked woes of many a fiery 
change 

Had purified, and chastened, and made 
free. 

Always there stood before him, night 
and day, 

Of wayward vary-colored circum- 
stance 

The imperishable presences serene, 

Colossal, without form, or sense, or 
sound, 

Dim shadows but unwaning pres- 
ences 

Fourfaced to four corners of the sky : 

And yet again, three shadows, front- 
ing one, 

One forward, one respectant, three 
but one ; 

And yet again, again and evermore, 

For the two first were not, but only 
seemed, 

One shadow in the midst of a great 
light, 

One reflex from eternity on time, 

One mighty countenance of perfect 
calm, 

Awful with most invariable eyes. 

For him the silent congregated hours, 

Daughters of time, divinely tall, be- 
neath 



Severe and youthful brows, with shin- 
ing eyes 
Smiling a godlike smile (the innocent 

light 
Of earliest youth pierced through and 

through with all 
Keen knowledges of low-embowed 

eld) 
Upheld, and ever hold aloft the cloud 
Which droops low-hung on either gate 

of life, 
Both birth and death : he in the centre 

fixt, 
Saw far on each side through the 

grated gates 
Most pale and clear and lovely dis- 
tances. 
He often lying broad awake, and 

yet 
Remaining from the body, and apart 
In intellect and power and will, hath 

heard 
Time flowing in the middle of the 

night, 
And all things creeping to a day of 

doom. 
How could ye know him ? Ye were 

yet within 
The narrower circle : he had wellnigh 

reached 
The last, which with a region of white 

flame, 
Pure without heat, into a larger air 
Upburning, and an ether of black blue, 
Investeth and ingirds all other lives. 



THE GRASSHOPPER 



Voice of the summer wind, 

Joy of the summer plain, 

Life of the summer hours 

Carol clearly, bound along. 

No Tithon thou as poets feign 

(Shame fall 'em, thev are deaf and 
blind), 

But an insect lithe and strong, 

Bowing the seeded summer flowers. 

Prove their falsehood and thy quar- 
rel, 
Vaulting on thine airy feet. 

Clap thy shielded sides and carol, 
Carol clearly, chirrup sweet. 
Thou art a mailed warrior in youth and 
strength complete; 



LOST HOPE 



933 



Armed cap-a-pie 

Full fair to see ; 

Unknowing fear, 

Undreading loss, 
A gallant cavalier, 
Bans pear et sans reproche, 
In sunlight and in shadow, 
The Bayard of the meadow. 

ii 
I would dwell with thee, 

Merry grasshopper, 
Thou art so glad and free, 

And as light as air ; 
Thou hast no sorrow or tears, 
Thou hast no compt of years, 
No withered immortality, 
But a short youth sunny and free. 
Carol clearly, bound along, 

Soon thy joy is over, 
A summer of loud song, 

And slumbers in the clover. 
What hast thou to do with evil 
In thine hour of love and revel, 

In thy heat of summer pride, 
Pushing the thick roots aside 
Of the singing flowered grasses, 
That brush thee with their silken 

tresses ? 
What hast thou to do with evil, 
Shooting, singing, ever springing 

In and out the emerald glooms, 
Ever leaping, ever singing, 

Lighting on the golden blooms ? 



LOVE, PEIDE, AND FORGET- 

FULNESS 

Ere yet my heart was sweet Love's 

tomb, 
Love labored honey busily. 
I was the hive, and Love the bee, 
My heart the honeycomb. 
One very dark and chilly night 
Pride came beneath and held a light. 

The cruel vapors went through all, 
Sweet Love was withered in his cell : 
Pride took Love's sweets, and by a 

spell 
Did change them into gall ; t 
And Memory, though fed by Pride, 
Did wax so thin on gall, 
Awhile she scarcely lived at all. 
What marvel that she died ? 



CHORUS 

IN AN UNPUBLISHED DRAMA, WRIT- 
TEN VERY EARLY 

The varied earth, the moving heaven, 

The rapid waste of roving sea, 
The fountain - pregnant mountains 
riven 
To shapes of wildest anarchy, 
By secret fire and midnight storms 
That wander round their windy 
cones, 
The subtle life, the countless forms 
Of living things, the wondrous 
tones 
Of man and beast are full of 

strange 
xlstonishment and boundless 
change. 

The day, the diamonded night, 

The echo, feeble child of sound, 
The heavy thunder's griding might, 

The herald lightning's starry bound, 
The vocal spring of bursting bloom, 

The naked summer's glowing birth, 
The troublous autumn's sallow gloom, 
The hoarhead winter paving earth 
With sheeny white, are full of 

strange 
Astonishment and boundless 
change. 

Each sun which from the centre flings 

Grand music and redundant fire, 
The burning belts, the mighty rings, 
The murm'rous planets' rolling 
choir 
The globe -filled arch that, cleaving air. 

Lost in its own effulgence sleeps, 
The lawless comets as they glare. 
And thunder through the sapphire 
deeps 
In wayward strength, are full of 

strange 
Astonishment and boundless 
change. 



LOST HOPE 
You cast to ground the hops which 

once Avas mine : 
But did the while your harsh decree 

deplore, 



934 



ADDITIONAL POEMS 



Embalming with sweet tears the va- 
cant shrine, 
My heart, where Hope had been and 
was no more. 

So on an oaken sprout 
A goodly acorn grew ; 
But winds from heaven shook the 
acorn out, 

And filled the cup with dew. 



THE TEARS OF HEAVEN 

Heaven weeps above the earth all 

night till morn, 
In darkness weeps as all ashamed to 

weep, 
Because the earth hath made her state 

forlorn 
With self- wrought evil of unnumbered 

years, 
And doth the fruit of her dishonor 

reap. 
And all the daj r heaven gathers back 

her tears 
Into her own blue eyes so clear and 

deep, 
And showering down the glory of 

lightsome day, 
Smiles on the Earth's worn brow to 

win her if she may. 



LOVE AND SORROW 

O maiden, fresher than the first green 

leaf 
With which the fearful springtide 

flecks the lea, 
Weep not, Almeida, that I said to 

thee 
That thou hast half my heart, for bit- 
ter grief 
Doth hold the other half in sovranty. 
Thou art my heart's sun in love's 

crystalline : 
Yet on both sides at once thou canst 

not shine : 
Thine is the bright side of my heart, 

and thine 
My heart's day. but the shadow of my 

heart, 
Issue of its own substance, my heart's 

night 



Thou canst not lighten even with thy 
light, 

All-powerful in beauty as thou art. 

Almeida, if my heart were substance- 
less, 

Then might thy rays pass through to 
the other side, 

So swiftly, that they nowhere would 
abide, 

But lose themselves in utter emptiness. 

Half-light, half- shadow, let my spirit 
sleep ; 

They never learned to love who never 
knew to weep. 



TO A LADY SLEEPING 

O thou whose fringed lids I gaze 

# upon, 

Through whose dim brain the winged 
dreams are borne, 

Unroof the shrines of clearest vision, 

In honor of the silver-flecked morn ; 

Long hath the white wave of the vir- 
gin light 

Driven back the billow of the dream- 
ful dark. 

Thou all unwittingly prolongest 
night, 

Though long ago listening the poised 
lark, 

With eyes dropt downward through 
the blue serene, 

Over heaven's parapet the angels lean. 



SONNET 

Could I outwear my present state of 

woe 
With one brief winter, and indue i' 

the spring 
Hues of fresh youth, and mightily 

outgrow 
The wan dark coil of faded suffering — 
Forth in the pride of beauty issuing 
A sheeny snake, the light of vernal 

bowers, 
Moving his crest to all sweet plots of 

flowers 
And watered valleys where the young 

birds sing ; 
Could I thus hope my lost delight's 

renewing, 



LOVE 



935 



I straightly would command the tears 

to creep 
From my charged lids ; but inwardly 

I weep ; 
Some vital heat as yet my heart is 

wooing : 
That to itself hath drawn the frozen 

rain 
From my cold eyes, and melted it 

again. 



SONNET 

Though Night hath climbed her peak 

of highest noon, 
And bitter blasts the screaming autumn 

whirl, 
All night through archways of the 

bridged pearl, 
And portals of pure silver, walks the 

moon. 
Walk on, my soul, nor crouch to 

agony, 
Turn cloud to light, and bitterness to 

joy, 

And dross to gold with glorious al- 
chemy, 

Basing thy throne above the world's 
annoy. 

Reign thou above the storms of sor- 
row and ruth 

That roar beneath ; unshaken peace 
hath won thee ; 

So shalt thou pierce the woven glooms 
of truth ; 

So shall the blessing of the meek be 
on thee ; 

So in thine hour of dawn, the body's 
youth, 

An honorable eld shall come upon thee. 



SONNET 

Shall the hag Evil die with child of 
Good, 

Or propagate again her loathed kind, 

Thronging the cells of the diseased 
mind, 

Hateful with hanging cheeks, a with- 
ered brood, 

Though hourly pastured on t lie salient 
blood ? 

Oh! that the wind which bloweth cold 
or heat 



Would shatter and o'erbearthe brazen 

beat 
Of their broad vans, and in the soli- 
tude 
Of middle space confound them, and 

blow back 
Their wild cries down their cavern 

throats, and slake 
With points of blast-borne hail their 

heated eyne ! 
So their wan limbs no more might 

come between 
The moon and the moon's reflex in 

the night, 
Nor blot with floating shades the solar 

light, 



SONNET 

The pallid thunder-stricken sigh fqr 

gain, 
Down an ideal stream they ever float, 
And sailing on Pactolus in a boat, 
Drown soul and sense, while wistfully 

they strain 
Weak eyes upon the glistering sands 

that robe 
The understream. The wise, could 

he behold 
Cathedraled caverns of thick-ribbed 

gold 
And branching silvers of the central 

globe, 
Would marvel from so beautiful a 

sight 
How scorn and ruin, pain and hate 

could flow : 
But Hatred in a gold cave sits below ; 
Pleached with her hair, in mail of 

argent light 
Shot into gold, a snake her forehead 

clips, 
And skins the color from her trem- 
bling lips. 



LOVE 



Thou, from the first, unborn, undying 
Love, 

Albeit we gaze not on thy glories 

near. 
Before the face of God didst breathe 

and move, 



93^ 



ADDITIONAL POEMS 



Though night and pain and ruin and 

death reign here. 
Thou foldest, like a golden atmos- 
phere, 
The very throne of the eternal God : 
Passing through -thee the edicts of his 

fear 
Are mellowed into music, borne abroad 
By the loud winds, though they up- 

rend the sea, 
Even from its central deeps : thine 

empery 
Is over all ; thou wilt not brook eclipse ; 
Thou goest and returnest to His lips 
Like lightning : thou dost ever brood 

above 
The silence of all hearts, unutterable 

Love. 



To know thee is all wisdom, and old 
age 

Is but to know thee : dimly we behold 
thee 

Athwart the veils of evils which in- 
fold thee. 

We beat upon our aching hearts in 
rage ; 

We cry for thee ; we deem the world 
thy tomb. 

As dwellers in lone planets look upon 

The mighty disk of their majestic sun, 

Hollowed in awful chasms of wheeling 
gloom, 

Making their day dim, so we gaze on 
thee. 

Come, thou of many crowns, white- 
robed Love, 

Oh ! rend the veil in twain : all men 
adore thee ; 

Heaven crieth after thee ; earth wait- 
eth for thee ; 

Breathe on thy winged throne, and it 
shall move 

In music and in light o'er land and sea. 



And now — methinks I gaze upon 

thee now, 
As on a serpent in his agonies 
Awe-stricken Indians ; what time laid 

low 
And crushing the thick fragrant reeds 

he lies. 
When the new year warm-breathed 

on the Earth, 



Waiting to light him with her purple 

skies, 
Calls to him by the fountain to uprise. 
Already with the pangs of a new birth 
Strain the hot spheres of his convulsed 

eyes, 
And in his writhings awful hues begin 
To wander down his sable-sheeny 

sides, 
Like light on troubled waters: from 

within 
Anon he rusheth forth with merry din. 
And in him light and joy and strength 

abides ; 
And from his brows a crown of living 

light 
Looks through the thick- stemmed 

woods by day and night. 



ENGLISH WAR-SONG 

Who fears to die ? Who fears to die ? 
Is there any here who fears to die ? 
He shall find what he fears ; and none 
shall grieve 
For the man who fears to die ; 
But the withering scorn of the many 
shall cleave 
To the man who fears to die. 

CHORUS. 

Shout for England ! 
Ho ! for England ! 
George for England ! 
Merry England ! 
England for aye ! 

The hollow at heart shall crouch 

forlorn, 
He shall eat the bread of common 
scorn ; 
It shall be steeped in the salt, salt 
tear, 
Shall be steeped in his own salt 
tear: 
Far better, far better he never were 
born 
Than to shame merry England here. 
Cho. — Shout for England ! etc. 

There standeth our ancient enemy ; 
Hark! he shouteth — the ancient 

enemy ! 
On the ridge of the hill his banners 

rise ; 



THE SEA FAIRIES 



937 



They stream like fire in the skies ; 
Hold up the Lion of England on high 
Till it dazzle and blind his eyes. 

Cho. —Shout for England ! etc. 

Come along ! we alone of the earth 

are free ; 
The child in our cradles is bolder 
than he ; 
For where is the heart and strength 
of slaves ? 
Oh ! where is the strength of slaves? 
He is weak ! we are strong : he a 
slave, we are free ; 
Come along ! we will dig their 
graves. 
Cho. — Shout for England ! etc. 

There standeth our ancient enemy ; 
Will he dare to battle with the free ? 
Spur along! spur amain! charge to 
the fight : 
Charge ! charge to the fight ! 
Hold up the Lion of England on high! 
Shout for God and our right ! 

Cho. — Shout for England ! etc. 



NATIOXAL SONG 

There is no land like England 

Where'er the light of day be ; 
There are no hearts like English hearts, 

Such hearts of oak as they be. 
There is no land like England 

Where'er the light of day be ; 
There are no men like Englishmen, 

So tall and bold as they be. 

CHORUS. 

For the French the Pope may shrive 

'em. 
For the devil a whit we heed 'em : 
As for the French, God speed 'em 

Unto their heart's desire, 
And the merry devil drive 'em 

Through the water and the fire. 

FULL CHORl'S 

Our glory is our freedom, 
We lord it o'er the sea ; 
We are the sons of freedom. 
We are free. 

There is no land like England. 
Where'er the light of day be ; 



There are no wives like English wives, 
So fair and chaste as they be. 

There is no land like England, 
Where'er the light of day be ; 

There are no maids like English maids, 
So beautiful as they be. 

Cho. —For the French, etc. 



DUALISMS 

Two bees within a crystal flowerbell 
rocked, 
Hum a love-lay to the west- wind at 

noontide. 
Both alike, they buzz together, 
Both alike, they hum together, 
Through and through the flowered 
heather. 
Where in a creeping cove the wave 
unshocked 
Lays itself calm and wide. 
Over a stream two birds of glancing 

feather 
Do woo each other, carolling to- 
gether. 
Both alike, they glide together, 

Side by side ; 
Both alike, they sing together. 
Arching blue-glossed necks beneath 
the purple weather. 

Two children lovelier than Love adown 

the lea are singing. 
As they gambol, lily'garlands ever 
stringing: 
Both in blosrn-white silk arc 
f rocked : 
Like, unlike, they roam together 
Under a summer vault of golden 

weather: 
Like, unlike, they sing together 
Side by side, 
Mid-May's darling golden-lockecl, 
Summer's tanling diamond-eyed. 



THE SEA FAIRIES 1 

Slow sailed the weary mariners, and 

saw 
Between the green brink and tin 4 run 

aing foam 
White limbs unrobed in a crystal 
air. 
i Original form. See page is. 



93* 



ADDITIONAL POEMS 



Sweet faces, rounded arms, and bosoms 
prcst 

To little harps of gold: and while they 
mused, 

Whispering to each other half in 
fear, 

Shrill music reached them on the mid- 
dle sea. 

SONG. 

Whither away, whither away, 
whither away ? Fly no more : 
Whither away wi' the singing sail ? 
whither away wi' the oar ? 
Whither away from the high green 
field and the happy blossoming 
shore ? 
Weary mariners, hither away, 

One and all, one and all, 
Weary mariners, come and play ; 
We will sing to you all the day ; 
Furl the sail and the foam will 

fall 
From the prow ! One and all, 
Furl the sail ! Drop the oar ! 
Leap ashore, 
Know danger and trouble and toil 

no more. 
Whither away wi' the sail and the 
oar? 

Drop the oar, 
Leap ashore, 
Fly no more ! 
Whither away wi' the sail ? whither 
aw T ay wi' the oar ? 
Day and night to the billow the 

fountain calls : 
Down shower the gambolling water- 
falls 
From wandering over the lea ; 
They freshen the silvery-crimson 

shells, 
And thick with white bells the 
clover-hill swells 
High over the full- toned sea. 
Merrily carol the revelling gales 

Over the islands free : 
From the green seabanks the rose 
down-trails 
To the happy brimmed sea. 

Come hither, come hither and be our 
lords, 
For merry brides are we : 



We will kiss sweet kisses, and speak 
sweet words. 
Oh listen, listen, your eyes shall 

glisten 
With pleasure and love and rev- 
elry ; 
Oh listen, listen, your eyes shall 
glisten, 
When the clear sharp twang of the 
golden chords 
Runs up the ridged sea. 
Ye will not find so happy a shore, 
Weary mariners ! all the world 
o r er ; 

Oh ! fly no more ! 
Hearken ye, hearken ye, sorrow shall 
darken ye, 
Danger and trouble and toil no 
more ; 

Whither away ? 
Drop the oar ; 
Hither away, 
Leap ashore ; 
Oh fly no more — no more : 
Whither away, whither away, whither 
away with the sail and the 
oar? 

0« e / 
L p€OVT€S 



All thoughts, all creeds, all dreams 
are true, 

All visions wild and strange ; 
Man is the measure of all truth 

Unto himself. All truth is change. 
All men do walk in sleep, and all 

Have faith in that they dream : 
For all things are as they seem to 
all, 

And all things flow like a stream. 



There is no rest, no calm, no pause, 

Nor good nor ill, nor light nor 
shade, 
Nor essence nor eternal laws : 

For nothing is, but all is made. 
But if I dream that all these are, 

They are to me for that I dream ; 
For all things are as they seem to 
all 

And all things flow like a* stream. 

Argal — this very opinion is only true 
relative!} 7- to the flowing philosophers. 



THE HESPERIDES 



939 



SONNET 

beauty, passing beauty ! sweetest 

Sweet ! 
How canst thou let me waste my 
youth in sighs ? 

1 only ask to sit beside, thy feet. 
Thou knowest I dare not look into 

thine eyes. 
Might I but kiss thy hand ! I dare not 

fold 
My arms about thee — scarcely dare 

to speak. 
And nothing seems to me so wild and 

bold, 
As with one kiss to touch thy 

blessed cheek. 
Methinks if I should kiss thee, no con- 
trol 
Within the thrilling brain could 

keep afloat 
The subtle spirit. Even while I 

spoke, 
The bare word kiss hath made my 

inner soul 
To tremble like a lutestring, ere 

the note 
Hath melted in the silence that it 

broke. 



THE HESPERIDES 

u Hesperus and his daughters three, 
That sing about the golden tree." 

Comus. 

The North-wind fall'n, in the new- 
starred night 
Zidonian Hanno, voyaging beyond 
The hoary promontory of Soloe" 
Past Thymiaterion, in calmed bays, 
Between the southern and the western 

Horn, 
Heard neither warbling of the night- 
ingale, 
Nor melody of the Libyan lotus flute 
Blown seaward from the shore ; but 

from a slope 
That ran bloom-bright into the Atlan- 
tic blue, 
Beneath a highland leaning down a. 

weight 
Of cliffs, and zoned below with cedar 
shade, 



Came voices, like the voices in a 

dream, 
Continuous, till he reached the outer 

sea. 



The golden apple, the golden apple, 
the hallowed fruit, 

Guard it well, guard it warily, 

Singing airily, 

Standing about the charmed root. 

Round about all is mute, 

As the snow-field on the mountain- 
peaks, 

As the sand-field at the mountain-foot. 

Crocodiles in briny creeks 

Sleep and stir not : all is mute. 

If ye sing not, if ye make false mea- 
sure, 

We shall lose eternal pleasure, 

Worth eternal want of rest. 

Laugh not loudly : watch the treasure 

Of the wisdom of the West. 

In a corner wisdom whispers. Five 
and three 

(Let it not be preached abroad) make 
an awful mystery. 

For the blossom unto threefold music 
bloweth ; 

Evermore it is born anew ; 

And the sap to threefold music flow- 
eth, 

From the root 

Drawn in the dark, 

Up to the fruit, 

Creeping under the fragrant bark, 

Liquid gold, honeysweet, thro' and 
thro'. 

Keen-eyed Sisters, singing airily, 

Looking warily 

Every way, 

Guard the apple night and day, 

Lest one from the East come and take 
it away. 



Father Hesper, Father Hesper, watch. 

watch, ever and aye. 
Looking under silver hair with a ^il 

vcr eye. 
Father, twinkle not thy steadfasl 

sight ; 
Kingdoms Lapse, and climates change. 

ami races die ; 



9 4o 



ADDITIONAL POEMS 



Honor comes with mystery ; 
Hoarded wisdom brings delight. 
Number, tell them over and number 
How many the mystic fruit-tree holds 
Lest the red-combed dragon slumber 
Rolled together in purple folds. 
Look to him, father, lest he wink, and 

the golden apple be stol'n away, 
For his ancient heart is drunk with 

overwatchings night and day, 
Round about the hallowed fruit-tree 

curled — 
Sing away, sing aloud evermore in the 

wind, without stop, 
Lest his scaled eyelid drop, 
For he is older than the world. 
If he waken, we waken, 
Rapidly levelling eager eyes. 
If he sleep, we sleep, 
Dropping the eyelid over the eyes. 
If the golden apple be taken, 
The world will be overwise. 
Five links, a golden chain, are we, 
Hesper, the dragon, and sisters three, 
Bound about the golden tree. 



Father Hesper, Father Hesper, watch, 
watch, night and day, 

Lest the old wound of the world be 
healed, 

The glory unsealed, 

The golden apple stolen away, 

And the ancient secret revealed. 

Look from west to east along : 

Father, old Himala weakens, Cau- 
casus is bold and strong. 

Wandering waters unto wandering 
waters call ; 

Let them clash together, foam and fall. 

Out of watchings, out of wiles, 

Comes the bliss of secret smiles. 

All things are not told to all. 

Half-round the mantling night is 
drawn. 

Purple fringed with even and dawn. 

Hesper hateth Phosphor, evening hat- 
etk morn. 



Every flower and every fruit the redo- 
lent breath 
Of this warm sen-wind ripeneth. 
Arching the billow in his sleep ; 
But the land-wind wandereth, 
Broken by the highland-steep, 



Two streams upon the violet deep ; 
For the western sun and the western 

star, 
And the low west- wind, breathing 

afar, 
The end of day and beginning of night 
Make the apple holy and bright ; 
Holy and bright, round and full, 

bright and blest, 
Mellow r ed in a land of rest ; 
Watch it warily day and night ; 
All good things are in the west. 
Till mid noon the cool east light 
Is shut out by the tall hillbrow ; 
But when the full-faced sunset yel- 

lowly 
Stays on the flowering arch of the 

bough, 
The luscious fruitage clustereth mel- 
lowly, 
Golden-kernelled, golden-cored, 
Sunset-ripened above on the tree. 
The world is wasted with fire and 

sword, 
But the apple of gold hangs over the 

sea. 
Five links, a golden chain are we, 
Hesper, the dragon, and sisters three, 
Daughters three, 
Bound about 

The gnarled bole of the charmed tree. 
The golden apple, the golden apple, 

the hallowed fruit, 
Guard it well, guard it warily, 
Watch it warily, 
Singing airily, 
Standing about the charmed root. 



ROSALIND i 

Author's Note. — Perhaps the follow- 
ing lines may be allowed to stand as a sep- 
arate poem; originally they made part of 
the text, where they were manifestly snper- 
fluous. 

My Rosalind, my Rosalind, 

Bold, subtle, careless Rosalind, 

Is one of those who know no strife 

Of inward woe or outward fear ; 

To whom the slope and stream of 

Life, 
The life before, the life behind. 
In the ear, from far and near, 

1 This poem (see p. 26) has been restored, 
but without the Author's Note. 






TO CHRISTOPHER NORTH 



941 



Chime th musically clear. 
My falcon-hearted Rosalind, 
Full-sailed before a vigorous wind. 
Is one of those who cannot weep 
For others' woes, but overleap 
All the petty shocks and fears 
That trouble life in early years, 
With a flash of frolic scorn 
And keen delight, that never falls 
Away from freshness, self-upborne 
With such gladness as, whenever 
The fresh-flushing springtime calls 
To the flooding waters cool, 
Young fishes, on an April morn, 
Up and down a rapid river, 
Leap the little waterfalls 
That sing into the pebbled pool. 
My happy falcon. Rosalind, 
Hath daring fancies of her own, 
Fresh as the dawn before the day, 
Fresh as the early sea-smell blown 
Through vineyards from an inland 

bay. 
My Rosalind, my Rosalind, 
Because no shadow on you falls, 
Think you hearts are tennisballs 
To play with, wanton Rosalind? 



SONG 

Who can sav 

Why To-day 

To-morrow will be yesterday? 

Who can tell 

Why to smell 

The' violet recalls the dewy prime 

Of youth and buried time? 

The cause is nowhere found inrhyrne. 



SONNET 

WRITTEN OX HEARING OF THE OUT- 
BREAK OF THE POLISH INSURREC- 
TION 

Blow ye the trumpet, gather from 

afar 
The hosts to battle : be not bought 

and sold. 
Arise, brave Poles, the boldest of the 

bold : 
Break through your iron shack 

fling them far. 
O for those daysof Piast, ere the Czar 



Grew to his strength among his des- 
erts cold ; 

When even to Moscow's cupolas were 
rolled 

The growing murmurs of the Polish 
war ! 

Xow must your noble anger blaze out 
more 

Than when from Sobieski, clan by clan, 

The Moslem myriads fell, and tied be- 
fore — 

Than when Zamoysky smote the Tar- 
tar Khan ; 

Than earlier, when on the Baltic shore 

Boleslas drove the Pomeranian. 



O DARLING ROOM 



O darling room, my heart's delight, 
Dear room, the apple of my sight, 
With thy two couches soft and white, 

There is no room so exquisite, 
Xo little room so warm and bright, 
Wherein to read, wherein to write. 



For I the Xonnenwerth have seen, 
And Oberwinter's vineyards green, 
Musical Lurlei ; and between 
The hills to Bingen have I been, 
Bingen in Darmstadt, where the 

Rhene 
Curves toward Mentz. a woody scene. 



Yet never did there meet my sight, 

In any town to left or right, 

A little room so exquisite, 

With two such couches soft and white, 

Not any room so warm and bright. 

Wherein to read, wherein to write. 



TO CHRISTOPHER NORTH 

Yon did late review my lays. 

Crusty Christopher ; 
You did mingle blame and pi 

Rusty Christopher. 
When i harm from whom it came, 
grave yon all the blame, 
Musty Christopher ; 

e the praifi 
Fu 



942 



ADDITIONAL POEMS 



ON CAMBRIDGE UNIVERSITY 

Therefore your Halls, your ancient 
Colleges, 

Your portals statued with old kings 
and queens, 

Your gardens, myriad-volurned libra- 
ries, 

Wax-lighted chapels, and rich carven 
screens, 

Your doctors and your proctors, and 
your deans 

Shall not avail you, when the Day- 
beam sports 

New-risen o'er awaken'd Albion — 
No! 

Nor yet your solemn organ-pipes that 
blow 

Melodious thunders thro' your vacant 
courts 

At morn and eve — because your man- 
ner sorts 

Not with this age wherefrom ye stand 
apart — 

Because the lips of little children 
preach 

Against you, you that do profess to 
teach 

And teach us nothing, feeding not the 
heart. 



NO MORE* 

O sad No More ! O sweet No 

More! 
O strange No More ! 
By a mossed brookbank on a stone 
I smelt a wildweed flower alone ; 
There was a ringing in my ears, 
And both my eyes gushed out with 
tears. 
Surely all pleasant things had gone 

before, 
Low-buried fathom deep beneath with 
thee, No More ! 



ANACREONTICS 1 

With roses musky-breathed, 

And drooping daffodilly, 
And silver-leaved lily, 
And ivy darkly-wreathed, 
I wove a crown before her. 

iFrom * The Gem, a Lit 



For her I love so dearly, 

A garland for Lenora. 

With a silken cord I bound it. 

Lenora, laughing clearly 

A light and thrilling laughter, 

About her forehead wound it, 

And loved me ever after. 



A FRAGMENT * 

Where is the Giant of the Sun, which 
stood 

In the midnoon the glory of old 
Rhodes, 

A perfect Idol with profulgent brows 

Far-sheening down the purple seas to 
those 

Who sailed from Mizraim underneath 
the star 

Named of the Dragon — and between 
whose limbs 

Of brassy vastness broad-blown Argo- 
sies 

Drave into haven ? Yet endure un- 
scathed 

Of changeful cycles the great Pyra- 
mids 

Broad-based amid the fleeting sands, 
and sloped 

Into the slumberous summer noon; 
but where, 

Mysterious Egypt, are thine obelisks 

Graven with gorgeous emblems undis- 
cerned ? 

Thy placid Sphinxes brooding o'er the 
Nile ? 

Thy shadowing Idols in the solitudes, 

Awful Memnonian countenances calm 

Looking athwart the burning flats, 
far off 

Seen by the high-necked camel on the 
verge 

Journeying southward? Where are 
thy monuments 

Piled by the strong and sunborn Ana- 
kim 

Over their crowned brethren Ox and 
Oph? 

Thy Memnon when his peaceful lips 
are kist 

With earliest rays, that from his mo- 
ther's eyes 

Flow over the Arabian bay, no more 
erary Annual,' for 1831. 



THE SKIPPING-ROPE 



943 



Breathes low into the charmed ears of 

mom 
Clear melody flattering the crisped 

Nile 
By columned Thebes. Old Memphis 

hath gone down: 
The Pharaohs are no more : somewhere 

in death 
They sleep with staring eyes and gilded 

lips, 
Wrapped round with spiced cerements 

in old grots 
Rock-hewn and sealed for ever. 



Me 



SONNET i 

to lasting sorrow 



my own fate 
doometh : 
Thy woes are birds of passage, tran- 
sitory : 
Thy spirit, circled with a living 
glory. 
In summer still a summer jov resum- 

eth. 
Alone my hopeless melancholy glooni- 
eth, 
Like a lone cypress, through the 
twilight hoary. 
From an old garden where no flower 
bloometh, 
One cypress on an island promon- 
tory. 
But yet my lonely spirit follows thine, 
As round the rolling earth night fol- 
lows day : 
But yet thy lights on my horizon 
shine 
Into my night, when thou art far 
away. 
I am so dark, alas ! and thou so bright. 
When we two meet there's never per- 
fect light. 



SONNET 2 

Check every outflash, every ruder 
sally 
Of thought and speech; speak low, 
and give up wholly 

Thy spirit to mild-minded Melan- 
choly ; 

iFrom 'Friendship's Offering,' for 
-From 'The Englishman's Magaziiu 
August, 1831. 



This is the place. Through yonder 
poplar alley 
Below the blue-green river windeth 
slowly ; 
But in the middle of the sombre valley 
The crisped waters whisper musically. 
And all the haunted place is dark 
and holy. 
The nightingale, with long and low 
preamble, 
Warbled from yonder knoll of 

solemn larches, 
And in and out the woodbine" s 
flowery arches 
The summer midges wove their wan- 
ton gambol, 
And all the white-stemmed pine- 
wood slept above — 
When in this valley first I told my 
love. 



SONNET i 

There are three things which fill my 

heart with sighs. 
And steep my soul in laughter (when 

I view 
Fair maiden-forms moving like melo- 
dies) — 
Dimples, roselips, and eyes of any hue. 
There are three things beneath the 

blessed skies 
For which I live — black eyes and 

brown and blue : 
I hold them all most dear; but oh: 

black e\ 
I live and die. and only die in you. 
Of late such eyes looked at me — while 

I mused, 
At sunset, underneath a shadowy 

plane, 
In old Bayona nigh the southern sea — 
From an half-open lattice looked ai un . 
I -aw no more — only those eyes— eon 

fused 
And dazzled to the heart with glorious 

pain. 



THE SKIPPING-ROPE 

Sure oev< - antelope 

uld skip -<» lightly by. 
i From 'The Yorkshire Literary Annual,' 



944 



ADDITIONAL POEMS 



Stand off, or else my skipping-rope 

Will hit you in the eye. 
How lightly whirls the skipping-rope ! 

How fairy-like you fly ! 
Go, get you gone, you muse and 
mope — 

I hate that silly sigh. 
Nay, dearest, teach me how to hope, 

Or tell me how to die. 
There, take it, take my skipping-rope, 

And hang yourself thereby. 



THE NEW TIMON AND THE 
POETS 1 

We know him, out of Shakespeare's 
art, 
And those fine curses which he 
spoke ; 
The old Timon, with his noble heart, 
That, strongly loathing, greatly 
broke. 

So died the Old : here comes the New. 

Regard him : a familiar face : 
I thought we knew him: What, it's 
you, 
The padded man — that wears the 
stays — 

Who killed the girls and thrilled the 
boys 

With dandy pathos when you wrote ! 
A Lion, you, that made a noise, 

And shook a mane en papillotes. 

And once you tried the Muses too ; 

You failed, Sir : therefore now you 
turn, 
To fall on those who are to you 

As Captain is to Subaltern. 

But men of long-enduring hopes, 
And careless what this hour may 
bring, 
Can pardon little would-be Popes 
And Brummels, when they try to 
sting. 

An Artist, Sir, should rest in Art, 
And waive a little of his claim ; 

To have the deep Poetic heart 
i> more than all poetic fame. 
1 Published in 'Punch,' Februar 
1 ' Alcibia 



But you, Sir, you are hard to please ; 

You never look but half content ; 
Nor like a gentleman at ease, 

With moral breadth of temperament. 

And what with spites and what with 
fears, 

You cannot let a body be : 
It's always ringing in your ears, 

1 They call this man as good as me. 

What profits now to understand 
The merits of a spotless shirt — 

A dapper boot — a little hand — 
If half the little soul is dirt ? 

You talk of tinsel ! why, we see 
The old mark of rouge upon your 
cheeks. 

You prate of Nature ! you are he 
That spilt his life about the cliques. 

A Timon you ! Nay, nay, for shame : 
It looks too arrogant a jest — 

The fierce old man — to take his name, 
You bandbox. Off, and let him rest. 



LINES 1 

Here often, when a child I lay re- 
clined, 
I took delight in this locality. 
Here stood the infant Ilion of the 
mind, 
And here the Grecian ships did seem 
to be. 
And here again I come, and only find 
The drain-cut levels of the marshy 
lea. — 
Gray sea-banks and pale sunsets, — 
dreary wind, 
Dim shores, dense rains, and heavy- 
clouded sea ! 



STANZAS 2 

What time I wasted youthful hours, 
One of the shining winged powers, 
Show'd me vast cliffs with crown of 
towers. 

1 From ' The Manchester Athena-urn 
Album,' 1850. 

■ ntributed to 'The Keepsake,' an il- 
lustrated annual, 1851. 



BRITOXS, GUARD YOUR OWX 



945 



As towards the gracious light I 

bow'd, 
They see nr d high palaces and proud. 
Hid now and then with sliding 

cloud. 

He said, ' The labor is not small ; 
Yet winds the pathway free to all : — 
Take care thou dost not fear to 
fall ! ' 



BRITOXS, GUARD YOUR OWX 1 

Rise, Britons, rise, if manhood be not 

dead ; 
The world's last tempest darkens over- 
head ; 
The Pope has bless'd him ; 
The Church caress'd him ; 
He triumphs : maybe we shall stand 
alone. 
Britons, guard your own. 

His ruthless host is bought with plun- 

der'd gold, 
By lying priests the peasants' votes 
controll'd. 
All freedom vanislrd, 
The true men banish'd. 
He triumphs : maybe we shall stand 
alone. 
Britons, guard your own. 



- sweet Peace we all 

- but who can trust a 



Peace-lovers we 
desire — 
Peace-lovers we 
liar '! — 
Peace-lovers, hat< 
Of shameless traitors, 
We hate not France, but this man's 
heart of stone. 
Bril rd your own. 

We hate not France, but France has 

lost her voice. 
This man is France, the man they call 
her choice. 
By tricks and spy 
By craft and lyi 
And mur her freedom 

thrown. 
Britons, guard your own. 
i From ' The Examiner/ January :jl . 
and -i_ r :,' d ' Merlin.' 



■ Vive TEmpereur' may follow bv and 

by; 
' God save the Queen' is here a truer 
cry. 
God save the Xation, 
The toleration. 
And the free speech that makes a Bri- 
ton known. 
Britons, guard your own. 

Rome's dearest daughter now is cap- 
tive France, 
The Jesuit laughs, and reckoning on 
his chance. 
Would, unrelenting, 
Kill all dissenting. 
Till we were left to fight for truth 
alone. 
Britons, guard your own. 

Call home your ships across Biscayan 
tid\ 

To blow the battle from their oaken 
sides. 
Why waste they yonder 
Their idle thunder '.' 
Why stay they there to guard a foreign 
throne ? 
Seamen, guard your own. 

We were the best of marksmen long 

ago, 
Y\ e won old battles with our strength, 
the bow. 
Xow practice, yeomen. 
Like those bowmen. 
Till your balls fly as their ti 
have flown. 
Yeomen, guard your own. 

Hi- soldier-ridden Highness might in- 
cline 
To take Sardinia. Belgium, <>r the 
Rhine : 
Shall we stand idle. 
Nor seek to bridle 
His rude 'and 

aloD 
Make their cause 3 <>ur - 

Should he land hour 

• ail. 
Th<re mus bear 

tin- • 

.1- it : 



946 



ADDITIONAL POEMS 



Although we tight the banded world 
alone, 
We swear to guard our own. 

ADDITIONAL VERSES * 

TO 'GOD SAVE THE QUEEN.' 

God bless our Prince and Bride ! 
God keep their lands allied, 

God save the Queen ! 
Clothe them with righteousness, 
Crown them with happiness, 
Them with all blessings bless, 

God save the Queen ! 

Fair fall this hallow'd hour, 
Farewell, our England's flower, 

God save the Queen ! 
Farewell, first rose of May ! 
Let both the peoples say, 
God bless thy marriage -day, 

God bless the Queen ! 



THE WAR 2 

There is a sound of thunder afar, 
Storm in the South that darkens the 
day! 
Storm of battle and thunder of war ! 
Well if it do not roll our way. 
Form ! form ! Riflemen, form ! 
Ready, be ready to meet the 

storm ! 
Riflemen, Riflemen, Riflemen, 
form ! 

Be not deaf to the sound that warns ! 

Be not gulVcl by a despot's plea ! 
Are .figs of thistles, or grapes of 
thorns ? 
How should a despot set men Free ? 
Form ! form ! Riflemen, form ! 
Ready, be ready to meet the 

storm ! 
Riflemen, Riflemen, Riflemen, 
form ! 

Let your reforms for a moment go ! 
Look to your butts, and take good 

aims ! 

1 Written for the marriage of the Princess 
Royal of England with the Crown Prince 
of Prussia, January 2o, 1858. 

- From ' The London Times,' Ma\ 9, 1859. 



Better a rotten borough or so 

Than a rotten fleet or a city in 
flames ! 
Form ! form ! Riflemen, form ! 
Ready, be ready to meet the 

storm ! 
Riflemen, Riflemen, Riflemen, 
form ! 

Form, be ready to do or die ! 

Form in Freedom's name and the 
Queen's ! 
True that we have a faithful ally, 
But only the devil can tell what he 
means. 
Form ! form ! Riflemen, form ! 
Ready, be ready to meet the 

storm ! 
Riflemen, Riflemen, Riflemen, 
form ! 



THE RINGLET 

* Your ringlets, your ringlets, 

That look so golden-gay, 
If you will give me one, but one, 

To kiss it night and day, 
Then never chilling touch of Time 

Will turn it silver-gray ; 
And then shall I know it is all true 

gold 
To flame and sparkle and stream as of 

old, 
Till all the comets in heaven are 
cold, 
And all her stars decay.' 
1 Then take it, love, and put it 

by; 
This cannot change, nor yet can I. 



' My ringlet, my ringlet, 

That art so golden-gay, 
Now never chilling touch of Time 

Can turn thee silver-gray ; 
And a lad mav wink, and a girl may 

hint, 
And a fool may say his say ; 
For my doubts and fears were all 

amiss, 
And I swear henceforth by this and 

this, 
That a doubt will only come for a 
kiss, 
And a fear to be kiss'd away.' 



COMPROMISE 



947 



1 Then kiss it, love, and put it by ; 
If this can change, why so can I.' 



Ringlet, O Ringlet, 

I kiss'd you night and day, 
And Ringlet, O Ringlet, 

You still are golden- gay, 
But Ringlet, O Ringlet, 

You should be silver- gray : 
For what is this which now I 'm 
told, 

1 that took you for true gold, 

She that gave you 's bought and 
sold, 

Sold, sold. 



O Ringlet, O Ringlet, 

She blush'd a ros} r red, 
When Ringlet, O Ringlet, 

She dipt you from her head, 
And Ringlet, O Ringlet, 

She gave you me, and said, 
' Come, kiss it, love, and put it by ; 
If this can change, why so can I.' 
O fie, you golden nothing, fie, 
You golden lie. 



O Ringlet, O Ringlet, 
I count you much to blame 

For Ringlet, O Ringlet, 

You put me much to shame, 

So Ringlet, O Ringlet, 
I doom you to the flame. 

For what is this which now I learn 

Has given all my faith a turn ? 

Burn, you glossy heretic, burn, 
Burn. burn. 



LINES 1 

Long as the heart beats life within her 
breast, 
Thy child will bless thee, guardian 
mother mild, 
And far away thy memory will be 
blest 
By children of the children of thy 
child. 

i Written in 18G4, at the request of the 

Queen, for inscription on the statue of tin- 
Duchess of Kent at Frogmore ; printed in 
'The Court Journal,' March 19, 1864. 



1865-1866 1 

I stood on a tower in the wet, 
And New Year and Old Year met, 
And winds were roaring and blowing, 
And I said, 'O years that meet in 

tears, 
Have ye aught that is worth the know- 
ing? 
Science enough and exploring, 
Wanderers coming and going, 
Matter enough for deploring, 
But aught that is worth the know- 
ing?' 
Seas at my feet were flowing. 
Waves on the shingle pouring. 
Old Year roaring and blowing. 
And New Year blowing and roaring. 



STANZA 2 



but 



Not he that breaks the dams, 
he 
That thro' the channels of the State 
Convoys the people's wish, is great ; 

His name is pure, his fame is free. 



COMPROMISES 

Steersman, be not precipitate in thy 

act 
Of steering, for the river here, my 

friend, 
Parts in two channels, moving to 

one end, 
This goes straight forward to the cat- 
aract, 
That streams about the bend ; 
But tho' the cataract seem the nearer 

way. 
Whate'er'the crowd on either bank 

may say, 
Take thou the bend, 'twill save thee 

many a day 

i 'Good Words, 1 March, 1868. 

a Contributed to the 'Shakespearean 
Show Book,' printed in March, 1884. for a 
fair got up l'«»r the benefit of the Chelsea 
Hospital for Women. 

;, > Addressed t<» Mr. Gladstone, thea Prime 
Minister, in November, 1SS4. when the 
Franchise Bill was being discussed m the 
House of Lords; ami afterwards printed in 
the -Pall .Mall Gazetta.' 



948 



ADDITIONAL POEMS 



EXPERIMENT IN SAPPHIC 
METRE i 

Faded every violet, all the roses ; 
Gone the glorious promise, and the 

victim 
Broken in the anger of Aphrodite 
Yields to the victor, 
i Contributed to Professor Jebb's ' Primer 
of Greek Literature,' 1877. 



STANZA i 

We lost you for how long a time, 
True Pearl of our poetic prime ! 
We found you, and you gleam re- 
set 
In Britain's lyric coronet. 

1 Pref atory, in 1891, to ' Pearl, ' an Eng- 
lish poem of the 14th century, edited by 
Mr. Israel Gollancz. 






INDEXES 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES 



A city clerk, but gently born and bred, 327. 
Act first, this Earth, a stage so gloom'd with 

woe, 693. 
Again at Christmas did we weave, 239. 
A garden here — May breath and bloom of spring, 

772. 
A happj' lover who has come, 220. 
Ah God ! the petty fools of rhyme, 348. 
Airy, fairy Lilian, 7. 
All along the valley, stream that flashest white, 

340. 
All thoughts, all creeds, all dreams are true, 

938. 
Altho' I be the basest of mankind, 105. 
And all is well, tho' faith and form, 256. 
And was the day of my delight, 225. 
And Willie, my eldest-born, is gone, you say, 

little Anne ? 334. 
Angels have talked with him, and showed him 

thrones, 932. 
A plague upon the people fell, 348. 
Are you sleeping ? have you forgotten ? do not 

sleep, my sister dear, 632. 
A rose, but one, none other rose had I, 536. 
Artemis, Artemis, hear us, O Mother, hear us, 

and bless us, 893. 
Ask me no more : the wind may draw the sea, 

206. 
A spirit haunts the year's last hours, 16. 
As sometimes in a dead man's face, 238. 
As thro' the land at eve we went, 163. 
A still small voice spake unto me, 37. 
A storm was coming, but the winds were still, 

468. 
As when with downcast eyes we muse and brood, 

29. 
At Flores in the Azores Sir Richard Grenville 

lay, 584. 
At Francis Allen's on the Christmas-eve, 83. 
Athelstan King, 613. 

A thousand summers are the time of Christ, 628. 
At times our Britain cannot rest, 659. 
Ay, ay, O, ay — the winds that bend the brier ! 

553. 

Babble in bower, 847. 

Banner of England, not for a season, O banner of 

Britain, hast thou, 597. 
'Beat, little heart — I give you this and this,' 

688. 
Beat upon mine, little heart ! beat, beat ! 690. 
Beautiful city, the centre and crater of European 

confusion, (593. 
Below the thunders of the upper deep, 7. 
Be near me when my light is low, 232. 
Be thou a-gawin' to the long barn ? 900. 
Blow trumpet, for the world is white with May, 

397. 
Blow ye the trumpet, gather from afar, 941 . 
Break, break, break, 153. 
Brooks, for they call'd you so that knew you 

best, 611. 
Bury the Great Duke, 288. 
By night we linger'd on the lawn. 245. 



i Calm is the morn without a sound, 221. 
Caress'd or chidden by the slender hand, 31. 
Chains, my good lord ! in your raised brows 1 

read, 603. 
Check every outflash, every ruder sally, 943. 
Clear-headed friend, whose joyful scorn, 10. 
Clearly the blue river chimes in its flowing, 4. 
Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain 

height, 210. 
Come not, when I am dead, 147. 
Come, when no graver cares employ, 287. 
Comrades, leave me here a little, while as yet 

'tis early morn, 120. 
Contemplate all this work of Time, 214. 
Could I have said while he was here, 239. 
Could I outwear my present state of woe, 934. 
Could we forget the widow'd hour, 229. 
' Courage ! ' he said, and pointed toward the 

land, 65. 

Dagonet, the fool, whom Gawain in his mood, 

540. 
Dainty little maiden, whither would you wander, 

347. 
Dark house, by which once more I stand. 219. 
Dead ! 643. 

Dead mountain flowers, 878. 
Dead Princess, living Power, if that which lived. 

596. 
Dear friend, far off, my lost desire, 257. 
Dear, near and true, — no truer Time himself, 

342. 
Deep on the convent-roof the snows, 134 
Dip down upon the northern shore, 240. 
Doors, where my heart was used to beat, 254. 
Dosn't thou 'ear my 'erse's legs, as they canters 

awaay, 339. 
Dost thou look back on what hatb been, 235. 
Do we indeed desire the dead, 232. 
Dust are our frames; and, gilded dust, our pride, 

312. 

Elaine the fair, Elaine the lovable, 487. 

Ere yet my heart was sweet Love's tomb, 933. 

Every day hath its night, 931 . 

Eyes not down-dropt nor over-bright, but fed. S. 

Faded every violet, all the roses, 948. 

Faint as a climate-changing bird that flies, 661. 

Fair is her cottage in its place, 341. 

Fair ship, that from the Italian shore, 220. 

Fair things are slow to fade away, 661. 

Farewell, Macready, since to-night we part. 

658. 
Farewell, whose like on earth I shall not Bud, 

694. 
Fifty times the rose has flower'd ami fad< d, 

660. 
First pledge our Queen this solemn night, I 
Flow down, cold rivulet, to the sea. 1 It'.. 
Flower in the crannied wall, 351. 
Free love — free field — we love hut while we 

may, 51."). 
From art, from nature, from the BChoolfl, 



95 2 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES 



From noiseful arms, and acts of prowess done, 

513. 
Full knee-deep lies the winter snow, 76. 

Gee oop ! whoa ! Gee oop ! whoa ! 911. 

Glory of warrior, glory of orator, glory of song, 

319. 
God bless our Prince and Bride ! 916. 
Golden-hair'd Ally whose name is one with mine, 

577. 

Half a league, half a league, 292. 
Hallowed be Thy name — Halleluiah ! 611. 
Hapless doom of woman happy in betrothing ! 

763. 
Heart-affluence in discursive talk, 251. 
Heaven weeps above the earth all night till 

morn, 934. 
He clasps the crag with crooked hands, 146. 
; He is fled — I wish him dead — ,' 678. 
Helen's Tower, here I stand, 646. 
He past, a soul of nobler tone, 234. 
Her arms across her breast she laid, 147. 
Here by this brook we parted, I to the East, 

281. 
Here far away, seen from the topmost cliff, 361. 
Here, it is here, the close of the year, 348. 
Here often, when a child I lay reclined, 944. 
Her eyes are homes of silent prayer, 227. 
He rose at dawn and, fired with hope, 341. 
Her, that yer Honor was spakin' to ? Whin, 

yer Honor ? last year — , 634, 
He tasted love with half his mind, 244. 
He that only rules by terror, 142. 
He thought to quell the stubborn hearts of oak, 

30. 
Hide me, mother ! my fathers belong'd to the 

church of old, 621. 
High wisdom, holds my wisdom less, 252. 
His eyes in eclipse, 929. 
1 His friends would praise him, I believe 'em,' 

711. 
Home they brought her warrior dead, 199. 
How fares it with the happy dead, 230. 
How long, O God, shall men be ridden down, 

31. 
How many a father have I seen, 232. 
How pure at heart and sound in head, 245. 

I am any man's suitor, 929. 

I built my soul a lordly pleasure-house, 54. 

I cannot love thee as I ought, 232. 

I cannot see the features right, 236. 

I climb the hill : from end to end, 248. 

I come from haunts of coot and hern, 282. 

1 dream'd there would be Spring no more, 236. 

I envy not in any moods, 226. 

If any vague desire should rise, 239. 

If any vision should reveal, 245. 

If, in thy second state sublime, 234. 

If I were loved, as I desire to be, 32. 

If one should bring me this report, 222. 

If Sleep and Death be truly one, 230. 

If these brief lays, of Sorrow born, 231. 

I had a vision when the night was late, 148. 

I hate the dreadful hollow behind the little wood, 

260. 
I hear the noise about thy keel, 220. 
I held it truth, with him who sings, 218. 
I knew an old wife lean and poor, 81. 
I know her by her angry air, 29. 
I know that this was Life, — the track, 225. 
I leave thy praises unexpress'd, 238. 
Illyrian woodlands, echoing falls, 153. 



I 'm glad I walk'd. How fresh the meadows 
look, 100. 

In her ear he whispers gaily, 143. 

In love, if love be love, if love be ours, 475. 

In those sad words I took farewell, 234. 

I past beside the reverend walls, 242. 

I read, before my eyelids dropt their shade, 69. 

I see the wealthy miller yet, 44. 

I send you here a sort of allegory, 54. 

I shall not see thee. Dare I say, 245. 

I sing to him that rests below, 224. 

Is it, then, regret for buried time, 253. 

Is it the wind of the dawn that I hear in the 
pine overhead ? 838. 

Is it you, that preach'd in the chapel there look- 
ing over the sand ? 624. 

I sometimes hold it half a sin, 219. 

I stood on a tower in the wet, 947. 

I stood upon the Mountain which o'er looks, 925. 

I' the glooming light, 930. 

It is the day when he was born, 251. 

It is the miller's daughter, 47. 
pit little profits that an idle king, 117. 

I trust I have not wasted breath, 254. 

It was the time when lilies blow, 141. 

I vex my heart with fancies dim, 230. 

I wage not any feud with Death, 240. 

I waited for the train at Coventry, 126. 

I was the chief of the race — he had stricken my 
father dead, 607. 

I will not shut me from my kind, 251. 

I wish I were as in the years of old, 618. 

King Arthur made new knights to fill the gap, 

529. 
King, that hast reign' d six hundred years, and 

grown, 616. 

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 60. 

Late, my grandson ! half the morning have I 
paced these sandy tracts, 649. 

Late, late, so late ! and dark the night and chill ! 
557. 

Leodogran, the King of Cameliard, 388. 

Life and Thought have gone away, 19 

Like souls that balance joy and pain, 146. 

Live thy Life, 694. 

Lo, as a dove when up she springs, 221. 

Long as the heart beats life within her breast, 
947. 

Long lines of cliff breaking have left a chasm, 
. 293. 

Lo ! there once more — this is the seventh night ! 
773. 

Love is and was my lord and king, 256. 

Love is come with a song and a smile, 778. 

Love that hath us in the net, 47. 

Love thou thy land, with love far-brought, 79. 

Low-flowing breezes are roaming the broad val- 
ley dimm'd in the gloaming, 4. 

Lucilia, wedded to Lucretius, found, 351. 

Many a hearth upon our dark globe sighs after 

many a vanish'd face, 667. 
Many, many welcomes, 693. 
Mellow moon of heaven, 669. 
Me my own fate to lasting sorrow doometh, 943. 
Midnight — in no midsummer tune, 645. 
Milk for my sweet-arts, Bess ! fur it mun be the 

time about now, 637. 
Mine be the strength of spirit, full and free, 30. 
Minnie and Winnie, 348. 
Moon on the field and the foam, 886. 
' More than my brothers are to me,' 239. 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES 



953 



Move eastward, happy earth, and leave, 146. 

My father left a park to me, 133. 

My friend should meet me somewhere hereabout, 

599. 
My good blade carves the casques of men, 136. 
My heart is wasted with my woe, 21. 
My hope and heart is with thee — thou wilt be, 

30. 
My life is full of weary days, 29. 
My Lords, we heard you speak : you told us all, 

My love has talk'd with rocks and trees, 247. 
My name, once mine, now thine, is closelier mine, 

476. 
My own dim life should teach me this, 227. 
My Rosalind, my Rosalind, 26. 
My Rosalind, my Rosalind, 940. 
Mystery of mysteries, 24. 

Naay, noa mander o' use to be callin' 'im Roa, 

Roa, Roa, 664. 
Nature, so far as in her lies, 78. 
Nightingales warbled without, 347. 
Not here ! the white North has thy bones; and 

thou, 616. 
Not he that breaks the dams, but he, 947. 
Not this way will you set your name, 641. 
Now fades the last long streak of snow, 253. 
Now is done thy long day's work, 20. 
Now sleeps the crimson petal, now the white, 

210. 
Now, sometimes in my sorrow shut, 224. 

O beauty, passing beauty ! sweetest Sweet, 939. 

O blackbird ! sing me something well, 75. 

O bridesmaid, ere the happy knot was tied, 32. 

O darling room, my heart's delight, 941. 

O days and hours, your work is this, 254. 

O diviner air, 587. 

Of love that never found his earthly close, 114. 

Of old sat Freedom on the heights, 79. 

O God ! my God ! have mercy now, 5. 

O go not yet, my love ! 931. 

O happy lark, that vvarblest high, 917. 

O Lady Flora, let me speak, 128. 

Old Fitz, who from your suburb grange, 617. 

Old poets foster'd under friendlier skies, 648. 

Old warder of these buried bones, 229. 

Old yew, which graspest at the stones, 218. 

O living will that shalt endure, 257. 

O Love, Love, Love ! O withering might ! 48. 

O love, what hours were thine and mine, 286. 

O loyal to the royal in thyself, 575. 

O maiden, fresher than the first green leaf, 934. 

O man, forgive thy mortal foe, 915. 

O me, my pleasant rambles by the lake, 102. 

O mighty-mouth'd inventor of harmonies, 344. 

O morning star that smilest in the blue, 416. 

O mother Ida, many fountain'd Ida, 48. 

Once in a golden hour, 340. 

Once more the gate behind me falls, 109. 

Once more the Heavenly Power, 644. 

On either side the river lie, 33. 

One writes, that ' other friends remain,' 219. 

On that last night before we went, 249. 

O Patriot Statesman, be thou wise to know, 646. 

O plump head-waiter at The Cock, 137. 

O purblind race of miserable men, 439. 

O sad No More ! O sweet No More ! 942. 

O Sorrow, cruel fellowship, 218. 

O Sorrow, wilt thou live with me, 234. 

O Swallow, Swallow, flying, flying south, 180. 

O sweet pale Margaret, 26. 

O thou so fair in summers gone, 647. 



O thou that after toil and storm, 227. 

O thou that sendest out the man, 81. 

O thou whose fringed lids I gaze upon, 934. 

O true and tried, so well and long, 257. 

Our birches yellowing and from each, 639. 

Our doctor had call'd in another, I never had 

seen him before, 595. 
Our enemies have fallen, have fallen : the seed. 

200. 
'Ouse-keeper sent tha, my lass, fur new Squire 

coom'd last night, 592. 
Out of the deep, my child, out of the deep, 610. 
Over ! the sweet summer closes, 819. 
O, wast thou with me, dearest, then, 255. 
O, well for him whose will is strong ! 288. 
O, yet we trust that somehow good, 233. 
O you chorus of indolent reviewers, 345. 
O young Mariner, 687. 

you that were eyes and light to the King till 
he past away, 616. 

Peace ; come away : the song of woe, 233. 
Pellam the king, who held and lost with Lot, 

457. 
Pine, beech and plane, oak, walnut, apricot, 

.884. 

Queen Guinevere had fled the court, and sat, 
553. 

Rainbow, stay, 649. 

Rain, rain, and sun ! a rainbow in the sky, 396. 

Revered, beloved — O you that hold, 1. 

Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky, 251. 

Rise, Britons, rise, if manhood be not dead, 
945. 

•Risest thou thus, dim dawn, again, 237. 

Risest thou thus, dim dawn, again, 248. 

Roman Virgil, thou that singest Ilion's lofty tem- 
ples robed in fire, 642. 

Rose, on this terrace fifty years ago, 693. 

Row us out from Desenzano, to your Sirmione 
row, 645. 

Sad Hesper o'er the buried sun, 254. 
Sainted Juliet ! dearest name ! 930. 
Sea-kings' daughter from over the sea, 334. 
Shall the hag Evil die with child of Good, 935. 
Shame upon you, Robin, 739. 
Sir Walter Vivian all a summer's day, 154. 
Sleep, kinsman thou to death and trance, 236. 
Slow sail'd the weary mariners and saw. IS. 
Slow sailed the weary mariners, and saw. 937. 
So all day long the noise of battle roll'd, 84. 
' So careful of the type '. ' but no, 233. 
So Hector spake; the Trojans roar'd applause. 

345. 
So many worlds, so much to do, 238. 
So, my lord, the Lady Giovanna, 873. 
So saying, light-foot Iris pass'd away. bl4. 
So then our good Archbishop Theobald, 816. 
'Spring-flowers ' ! While you still dela\ to take, 

683. 
Stand back, keep a clear Lane, 696. 
Steersman, be not precipitate in thy act, 947. 
Still on the tower stood the van. 
Still onward winds the dreary way. 226. 

Strong Son of God, Immortal Lore] 217. 

1 Summer !■ coming, summer j« coming, 1 < 

Sunset and evening star. 
Sure never yet was antelope, 948. 
Sweet after showers, ambrosial air. 
Sweet and low. sweet and low. 171 

Sweet Emma Bioreland of yonder town 



954 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES 



Sweet is true love tho' given in vain, in vain, 

506. 
Sweet soul, do with me as thou wilt, 235. 

Take wings of fancy, and ascend, 238. 

Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean, 

179. 
Tears of the widower, when he sees, 222. 
That each, who seems a separate whole, 231. 
That story which the bold Sir Bedivere, 567. 
That which we dare invoke to bless, 256. 
The baby new to earth and sky, 231. 
The brave Geraint, a knight of Arthur's court, 

423. 
' The Bull, the Fleece are cramm'd, and not a 

room,' 99. 
The charge of the gallant three hundred, the 

Heavy Brigade ! 640. 
The churl in spirit, up or down, 252. 
The Danube to the Severn gave, 223. 
The fire of heaven has kill'd the barren cold, 

464. 
The form, the form alone is eloquent ! 31. 
The ground-flame of the crocus breaks the mould, 

684. 
The last tall son of Lot and Bellicent, 398. 
The lesser griefs that may be said, 223. 
The lights and shadows fly ! 357. 
The lintwhite and the throstlecock, 930. 
The Lord let the house of a brute to the soul of a 

man, 691. 
The love that rose on stronger wings, 257. 
The North-wind fall'n, in the new-starred night, 

939. 
The pallid thunder-stricken sigh for gain, 935. 
The path by which we twain did go, 224. 
The plain was grassy, wild and bare, 20. 
The poet in a golden clime was born, 17. 
The rain had fallen, the Poet arose, 153. 
There are three things which fill my heart with 

sighs, 943. 
Therefore your Halls, your ancient Colleges, 942. 
There is a sound of thunder afar ! 946. 
There is no land like England, 937. 
There is sweet music here that softer falls, 66. 
There lies a vale in Ida, lovelier, 48. 
There rolls the deep where grew the tree, 255. 
These lame hexameters the strong-wing'd music 

of Homer ! 344. 
These to His Memory — since he held them dear, 

387. 
The Son of him with whom we strove for power, 

346. 
The splendor falls on castle walls, 178. 
The sun, the moon, the stars, the seas, the hills 

and the plains, 350. 
The time draws near the birth of Christ, 226. 
The time draws near the birth of Christ, 250. 
The town lay still in the low sunlight, 900. 
The varied earth, the moving heaven, 933. 
The voice and the Peak, 350. 
The winds, as at their hour of birth, 7. 
The wind that beats the mountain blows, 77. 
The wish, that of the living whole, 233. 
The woods decay, the woods decay and fall, 118. 
They have left the doors ajar; and by their clash, 

586. 
They rose to where their sovran eagle sails, 612. 
This morning is the morning of the day, 90. 
This truth came borne with bier and pall, 241. 
Tho' if an eye that 's downward cast, 234. 
Those that of late had fleeted far and fast, 611. 
Tho' truths in manhood darkly join, 228. 
Thou art not steep'd in golden languors, 10. 



Thou comest, much wept for; such a breeze, 

223. 
Thou, from the first, unborn, undying Love, 935. 
Though night hath climbed her peak of highest 

noon, 935. 
Thou third great Canning, stand among our best, 

646. 
Thou who stealest fire, 14. 
Thy converse drew us with delight, 252. 
Thy dark eyes open'd not, 27. 
Thy prayer was Light — more Light — while 

Time shall last, 646. 
Thy spirit ere our fatal loss, 230. 
Thy tuwhits are lull'd, I wot, 11. 
Thy voice is heard thro' rolling drums, 189. 
Thy voice is on the rolling air, 257. 
'T is held that sorrow makes us wise, 252. 
'T is well; 't is something; we may stand, 223. 
To-night the winds begin to rise, 222. 
To-night ungather'd let us leave, 250. 
To Sleep I give my powers away, 219. 
Turn, Fortune, turn thy wheel, and lower tho 

proud, 430. 
Two bees within a crystal flowerbell rocked, 

937. 
Two children in two neighbor villages, 23. 
Two Suns of Love make day of human life, 64S. 
Two young lovers in winter weather, 795. 

Ulysses, much-experienced man, 682. 
Unwatch'd, the garden bough shall sway, 248. 
Uplift a thousand voices full and sweet, 333. 
Urania speaks with darken'd brow, 228. 

Vex not thou the poet's mind, 18. 

Victor in Drama, Victor in Romance, 612. 

Voice of the summer wind, 932. 

Waait till our Sally cooms in, fur thou mun a' 

sights to tell, 582. 
Wailing, wailing, wailing, the wind over land 

and sea, 579. 
'Wait a little,' you say, * you are sure it '11 all 

come right,' 577. 
Wan Sculptor, weepest thou to take the cast, 

31. 
Warrior of God. man's friend, and tyrant's foe, 

646. 
Warrior of God, whose strong right arm debased, 

30. 
We know him, out of Shakespeare's art, 944. 
Welcome, welcome with one voice ! 657. 
We leave the well-beloved place, 248. 
We left behind the painted buoy, 144. 
Well, you shall have that song that Leonard 

wrote, 115. 
We lost you for how long a time, 948. 
We move, the wheel must always move, 692. 
We ranging down this lower track, 231. 
We sleep and wake and sleep, but all things 

move, 116. 
We were two daughters of one race, 53. 
What be those crown'd forms high over the 

sacred fountain ? 691. 
What did ye do, and what did ye saay, 910. 
What does little birdie say, 333. 
Whatever I have said or sung, 256. 
What hope is here for modern rhyme, 239. 
What sight so lured him thro' the fields he 

knew, 692. 
What time I wasted youthful hours, 944. 
What time the mighty moon was gathering light, 

21. 
What words are these have fallen from me ? 222. 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES 



955 



Wheer 'asta bean saw long and mea liggin' "ere 

aloan ? 337. 
When cats run home and light is come, 11. 
When I contemplate all alone, 240. 
When in the down I sink my head, 23G. 
When Lazarus left his charnel-cave, 227. 
When on my bed the moonlight falls, 235. 
When rosy plumelets tuft the larch, 245. 
When the breeze of a joyful dawn blew free, 11. 
When will the stream be aweary of flowing, 4. 
Where Claribel low-lieth, 3. 

Where is the Giant of the Sun, which stood, 942. 
While about the shore of Mona those Neronian 

legionaries, 342. 
While man and woman still are incomplete, 693. 
' Whither, O whither, love, shall we go,' 342. 
Who can say, 941. 

Who fears to die ? Who fears to die ? 93G. 
Who loves not Knowledge ? Who shall rail, 253. 
Who would be a merman bold, 23. 
Who would be a mermaid fair, 24. 
Why wail you, pretty plover ? and what is it that 

you fear ? 679. 
Wild bird, whose warble, liquid sweet, 243. 
Witch-elms that counterchange the floor, 244. 



With a half-glance upon the sky. 16. 
With blackest moss the flower-plots. 8. 
With farmer Allan at the farm abode. 96. 
With one black shadow at its feet, 35. 
With roses musky-breathed, 942. 
With such compelling cause to grieve, 226. 
With trembling fingers did we weave, 226. 
With weary steps I loiter on, 229. 

Yet if some voice that man could trust. 228. 

Yet pity for a horse o'er-driven. 235. 

You ask me, why, tho' ill at ease, 79. 

You cast to ground the hope which once was 
mine, 933. 

You did late review my lays, 941. 

You leave us : you will see the Rhine. 247. 

You make our faults too gross, and thence main- 
tain, 693. 

You might have won the Poet's name. 151. 

You must wake and call me early, call me early, 
mother dear, 61. 

Your ringlets, your ringlets, 946. 

You say, but with no touch of scorn, 246. 

You thought my heart too far diseased. 235. 

You, you, if you shall fail to understand. 657. 



INDEX OF TITLES 



Achilles over the Trench, 614. 
Additional Verses to ; God Save the Queen,' 946. 
Adeline. 24. 
Alexander, 30. 

Alexandra. A Welcome to, 334. 
Alexandrovna, Her Royal Highness Marie, Duch- 
ess of Edinburgh. A "Welcome, to, 346. 
Alice, Princess, Dedicatory Poem to, 596. 
All things will die, 4. 
Amphion, 133. 
Anacreontics. 942. 
Ancient Sage. The. 628. 
Argyll, Duke of. To the, 646. 
Audley Court. 99. 
Aylmer's Field, 312. 

Balin and Balan. 457. 

Ballad of Oriana. The. 21. 

Ballads, and Other Poems, 577. 

Battle of Brunanburh. 613. 

Beatrice, H. R. H. Princess. To, 648. 

Beautiful City, 693. 

Becket. 815. 

Beggar Maid, The. 147. 

Blackbird, The. 75. 

Boadicea, 342. 

Boyle, Mary, To. 683. 

' Break, Break. Break.' 153. 

Bridesmaid, The. 32. 

Britons, Guard Your Own, 945. 

Brook, The. 281. 

Brookfield. Rev. W. H., To the, 611. 

Buonaparte, 30. 

Burial of Love. The. 929. 

By an Evolutionist, 691. 

Cambridge University, On, 942. 

Captain, The. 142. 

• Caress'd or chidden by the slender hand,' 31. 

Caxton, Epitaph on. 646. 

Character. A. 16. 

Charge of the Heavy Brigade at Balaclava, The, 

640. 
Charge of the Light Brigade. The. 292. 
'Check every outflash, every ruder sally.' 943. 
Child Songs, 347. 
Choric Song. 66. 

Chorus in an Unpublished Drama, 933. 
Circumstance. 23. 
City Child. The, 347. 
Claribel. 3. 
Columbus. 603. 

k Come not. when I am dead,' 147. 
Coming of Arthur. The, 388. 
Compromise. :>47. 

' Could I outwear my present state of woe,' 934. 
Crossing the Bar, 924. 
Cup. The. W. 

Daisy, Thi . 
Dante, 

Dav-Dream, The. 
Dead Prophet. The. 643. 
Death of the Old Year, The, 76. 
Dedication. A, 342. 



Dedication (Idylls of the King), 3^7. 

Dedicatory Poem to the Princess Alice, 596. 

Defence of Lucknow, The. 597. 

Demeter and Other Poems, 659. 

Demeter and Persephone. 661. 

De Profundis. 610. 

Deserted House, The, 19. 

Despair. 624. 

Dirge, A. 20. 

Dora, \)o. 

Dream of Fair Women, A, 69. 

Dualisms, 937. 

Durr'erin and Ava. Marquis of. To the, 659. 

Dying Swan, The. 2< i. 

Eagle, The, 146. 

Early Sonnets. 29. 

Early Spring. 641. 

Edward Gray. 135. 

Edwin Morris, or, The Lake, 102. 

1S65-1S06, 947. 

Eleanore. 27. 

E. L. on his Travels in Greece. To. 153. 

England and America in 17S2. 

English Idyls and Other Poems, S3. 

English War-Song, 936. 

Enoch Arden and Other Poems. 293. 

Enoch Arden. 293. 

Epic. The. S3. 

Epitaph on Caxton, 646. 

Epitaph on General Gordon, 646. 

Epitaph on Lord Stratford de Redcliffe, 646. 

Experiments. 342. 

Experiments in Sapphic Metre, 948. 

Falcon. The. 

Farewell. A. 146. 

Far — far — away. 692. 

Fatima. 47. 

First Quarrel, The, 577. 

Fitzgerald, E.. To. 617. 

Fleet. The. I 

Flight, The. I 

Flower. The. 340. 

k Flower in the crannied wall," 351. 

Forlorn. 6,5. 

Fragment. A. 942. 

Franklin. Sir John. 616. 

; Frater Ave Atque Vale.' 64.~>. 

Frederica, Princess, on Her M 

Freedom, 647. 

Gardener's Daughter, The: or. The Pictures, 

Gareth and Lynetto 
Geraint and Enid, 
Godiva 

the Queen, 1 Additional \ersee to, 
M6. 

The. 115. 
. 81. 

Gordoi i 
Grandmother, Th< 

| Guinea 



958 



INDEX OF TITLES 



Hamley, General, Prologue to, 639. 


Memory, Ode to, 14. 


Hands All Round, 64G. 


'Me my own fate to lasting sorrow doometh,' 


Happy, 079. 

Harold : a Drama, 773. 


943. 
Merlin and the Gleam, 687. 


Helen's Tower, 646. 


Merlin and Vivien, 468. 


Hero to Leander, 931. 


Mermaid, The, 24. 


Hesperides, The, 939. 


Merman, The, 23. 


Higher Pantheism, The, 350. 


Miller's Daughter, The, 44. 


Holy Grail, The, 513. 


Milton, 344. 


Homer, On Translations of, 344. 


'Mine be the strength of spirit, full and free,' 


1 How ' and the ' Why,' The, 929. 


30. 


Hugo, Victor, To, 612. 


Minnie and Winnie, 348. 


Human Cry, The, 611. 


Montenegro, 012. 




Morte d' Arthur, 84. 


Idylls of the King, 387. 


Mourner, On a, 78. 


' If I were loved, as I desire to be,' 32. 


' Move eastward, happy earth, and leave,' 146. 


In Memoriam A. H. H., 217. 


' My life is full of weary days,' 29. 


In Memoriam W. G. Ward, 694. 


Mystic, The, 932. 


In Quantity, 344. 




In the Children's Hospital : Emmie, 595. 


National Song, 937. 


In the Garden at Swainston, 347. 


New Timon and the Poets, The, 944. 


In the Valley of Cauteretz, 340. 


No More, 942. 


Isabel, 8. 


North, Christopher, To, 941. 


Islet, The, 342. 


Northern Cobbler, The, 582. 




Northern Farmer, New Style, 339. 


Jebb, Professor, To, 061. 


Northern Farmer, Old Style, 337. 


J. M. K., To, 30. 


Nothing will Die, 4. 


J. S., To, 77. 




Jubilee of Queen Victoria, On the, 000. 


Oak, The, 094. 


Juvenilia, 3. 


' O beauty, passing beauty ! sweetest Sweet ! ' 

939. 
O Darling Room, 941. 


Kate, 29. 


Kraken, The, 7. 


Ode on the Death of the Duke of Wellington, 

288. 
Ode sung at the Opening of the International 


Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 60. 


Lady Clare, 141. 


Exhibition, 333. 


Lady op Shalott, The, and Other Poems, 33. 


Ode to Memory, 14. 


Lady of Shalott, The, 33. 


CEnone, 48. 


Lady Sleeping, To a, 934. 


' Of old sat Freedom on the heights,' 79. 


Lancelot and Elaine, 487. 


Ot pe'oi/re?, 938. 


Last Tournament, The, 540. 


Oldcastle, Sir John, Lord Cobham, 599. 


Leonine Elegiacs, 4. 


On a Mourner, 78. 


Letters, The, 148. 


On Cambridge University, 942. 


Lilian, 7. 


One who ran down the English, To, 693. 


Lines ('Long as the heart beats life within her 


On One who affected an Effeminate Manner, 


breast'), 947. 


693. 


Lines (' Here often, when a child I lay reclined '), 


On the Jubilee of Queen Victoria, 660. 


944. 


On Translations of Homer, 344. 


Literary Squabbles, 348. 


Opening of the Indian and Colonial Exhibition 


Locksley Hall, 120. 


by the Queen, 657. 


Locksley Hall Sixty Years After, etc., 649. 


Owl, The — Song, 11. 


Locksley Hall Sixty Years After, 649. 


Owl, The — Second Song, 11. 


Lord of Burleigh, The, 143. 


Owd Ro'a, 004. 


Lost Hope, 933. 


' O you chorus of indolent reviewers,' 345. 


Lotos-Eaters, The, 65. 




Love, 935. 


Palace of Art, The, 54. 


Love and Death, 21. 


Parnassus, 691. 


Love and Duty, 114. 


Passing of Arthur, The, 567. 


Love and Sorrow, 934. 


Pelleas and Ettarre, 529. 


Love, Pride, and Forgetfulness, 933. 


Play, The, 693. 


Lover's Tale, The, 361. 


Poet, The, 17. 


' Love thou thy land, witli love far-brought,' 79. 


Poets and their Bibliographies, 648. 


Lucretius, 351. 


Poet's Mind, The, 18. 




Poet's Song, The, 153. 


Macready, W. C, To, 658. 


Poland, 31. 


Madeline, 10. 


Politics, 692. 


Margaret, 26. 


Prefatory Poem to my Brother's Sonnets, 045. 


Mariana, 8 


Prefatory Sonnet to ' The Nineteenth Century,' 


Mariana in the South, 35. 


611. 


Marriage of Geraint, The, 423. 


Princess, The : a Medley, 154. 


and Other Poems, 200. 


Princess Alice, Dedicatory Poem to, 590. 


Maud : A Monodrnma. 260. 


Progress of Spring, The, 684. 


Maurice, P. D., To the Rev., 287. 


Prologue to General Hamley, 639. 


May Queen, The, 61. 


Promise of May, The, 900. 



INDEX OF TITLES 



959 



Queen, To the, 1. 

Queen, To the, 575. 

Queen Mary : a Drama, 095. 

Recollections of the Arabian Nights, 11. 

Requiescat, 341. 

Revenge, The; a Ballad of the Fleet, 584. 

Ring, The, 669. 

Ringlet, The, 946. 

Rizpah, 579. 

Romney's Remorse, 688. 

Rosalind, 26. 

Rosalind, 940. 

Roses on the Terrace, The, 693. 

Sailor Boy, The, 341. 

Saint Agnes' Eve, 134. 

Saint Simeon Stylites, 105. 

Sea-Fairies, The, 18. 

Sea Fairies, The, 937. 

Sea Dreams, 327. 

' Shall the hag Evil die with child of Good,' 935. 

Show-Day at Battle Abbey, 1876, 772. 

Sir Galahad, 136. 

Sir Launcelot and Queen Guinevere, 146. 

Sisters, The, 53. 

Sisters, The, 586. 

Skipping-Rope, The, 943. 

Snowdrop, The, 693. 

Songs : 

' A spirit haunts the year's last hours,' 16. 

' Beat upon mine, little heart,' 690. 

Choric, 66. 

; Every day hath its night,' 931. 

Far — far — away, 692. 

' I come from haunts of coot and hern, 282. 

Included in the dramas : 

'Artemis, Artemis, hear us, O Mother,' 893. 
1 Babble in bower,' 847. 
' Dead mountain flowers,' 878. 
' Gee oop ! whoa ! Gee oop ! whoa ! ' 911. 
' Hapless doom of women happy in betroth- 
ing ! ' 763. 
' His friends would praise him, I believe 

'em,' 711. 
' Is it the wind of the dawn that I hear in 

the pine overhead ? ' 838. 
' Love is come with a song and a smile,' 778. 
'Moon on the field and the foam,' 886. 
'O happy lark, that warblesthigh,' 917. 
' O man, forgive thy mortal foe,' 915. 
* Over ! the sweet summer closes,' 819. 
'Rainbow, stay,' S49. 
' Shame upon you, Robin,' 739. 
' The town lay still in the low sunlight,' 900. 
' Two young lovers in winter weather,' 795. 
' What did ye do, and what did ye saay,' 
910. 
Included in the Idylls of the King : 

k A rose, but one, none other rose had I,' 
I 536. 

'Ay, ay, O, ay — the winds that bend the 

brier ! ' 553. 
' Blow trumpet, for the world is white with 

May,' 397. 
' Free love — free field — we love but while 

we may.' 545. 
'In love, if love be love, if love be ours.' 

475. 
' Late, late, so late ! and dark the night and 

chill!' 557. 
' My name, once mine, now thine, is closelier 

mine,' 476. 
' O morning star that smilest in the blue/ H6. 



' Rain, rain, and sun ! a rainbow in the sky/ 
396. J 

' Sweet is true love tho' given in vain, in 
vain,' 506. 

'The fire of heaven has kill'd the barren 
cold-,' 464. 

' Turn, Fortune, turn thy wheel, and lower 
the proud,' 430. 
Included in The Princess : 

' Ask me no more : the moon may draw the 
sea,' 206. 

' As thro' the land at eve we went,' 163. 

' Home they brought her warrior dead,' 199. 

'Now sleeps the crimson petal, now the 
white,' 210. 

' O Swallow, Swallow, flying, flying south,' 
180. 

' Our enemies have fallen, have fallen : the 
seed,' 200. 

' Sweet and low,' 171. 

' Tears, idle tears, I know not what they 
mean,' 179. 

' The splendor falls on castle walls,' 178. 

' Thy voice is heard thro* rolling drums,' 
189. 
' I' the glooming light,' 930. 
'It is the miller's daughter,' 47. 
1 Love that hath us in the net,' 47. 
' Mellow moon of heaven,' 669. 
National, 937. 
' O diviner Air,' 587. 

' O mother Ida, many-fountain'd Ida,' 48. 
' The lintwhite and the throstlecock,' 930. 
' The winds, as at their hour of birth,' 7. 
' We sleep and wake and sleep, but all things 

move,' 116. 
' What does little birdie say,' 333. 
' Who can say,' 941. 
Sonnets : 

Alexander, 30. 

Bridesmaid, The, 32. 

Buonaparte, 30. 

' Caress'd or chidden by the slender hand.* 31. 

' Check every outflash, every ruder sally." 943. 

' Could I outwear my preseut state of woe,' 

934. 
' If I were loved, as I desire to be,' 32. 
'Me my own fate to lasting sorrow doometh,' 

943. 
' Mine be the strength of spirit, full and free,' 

30. 
Montenegro, 612. 
' O beauty, passing beauty ! sweetest Sweet ! 

939. 
Poland, 31. 
'Shall the hag Evil die with child of Good, 1 

935. 
'The form, the form alone is eloquent !' 31. 
'The pallid thunder-stricken sigh lor gain,' • 

935. 
'There are three things which I'll my heart 

with sighs,' !»-':'. 
'Though Night hath climbed her peak oi high- 
est noon.' 935. 

To , 29. 

To J. M. K.. 30. 

To l The Nineteenth Century,' Prefatory, 61 1 

To the Rev. W. H. Brookfleld, 611. 

TO Victor Hugo, 612. 

To W. C. Macreadj 

1 Wan Sculptor, weepesl thou to take the i 

31. 
Written on hearing of the Outbreak ol the 

Polish insurrection, 941. 



960 



INDEX OF TITLES 



Specimen of a Translation of the Iliad in Blank 

Verse, 345. 
Spinster's Sweet-Arts, The, 637. 
Spiteful Letter, The, 348. 
Stanza (• Not he that breaks the dams, but he '), 

947. 
Stanza (' We lost you for how long a time '), 948. 
Stanzas (' Come not, when I am dead '), 147. 
Stanzas (' What time I wasted youthful hours '), 

944. 
Stratford de Redcliffe, Lord, Epitaph on, 646. 
Supposed Confessions of a Second-rate Sensitive 

Mind, 5. 

Talking Oak, The, 109. 

Tears of Heaven, The, 934. 

Tennyson, Alfred, my Grandson, To, 577. 

4 The form, the form alone is eloquent !' 31. 

'The pallid thunder-stricken sigh for gain,' 935. 

4 There are three things which fill my heart with 

sighs,' 943. 
Third of February, 1852, The, 345. 
' Though Night hath climbed her peak of highest 

noon,' 935. 
Three Sonnets to a Coquette, 31. 
Throstle, The, 693. 
Timbuctoo, 925. 

TlRESIAS, AND OTHER POEMS, 617. 

Tiresias, 618. 
Tithonus, 118. 

To , ( ; Clear-headed friend,') 10. 

To , (' As when with downcast eyes we muse 

and brood,') 29. 
To , (' I send you here a sort of allegory,') 

54. 

To , (' Sainted Juliet ! dearest name ! ') 930. 

To , after reading a Life and Letters, 151. 

To a Lady Sleeping, 934. 

To Alfred Tennvson, my Grandson, 577. 

To Christopher North, 941.- 

To Dante, 61G. 

To E. Fitzgerald, 617. 

To E. L. on his Travels in Greece, 153. 

To H. R. H. Princess Beatrice, 648. ■ 

To J. M. K., 30. 

To J. S., 77. 

To Mary Boyle, 683. 

To-morrOw, 634. 



To One who ran down the English, 693. 

To Princess Frederica on Her Marriage, 616. 

To Professor Jebb, 661. 

To the Duke of Argyll, 646. 

To the Marquis of Dufferin and Ava, 659. 

To the Queen, 1. 

To the Queen, 575. 

To the Rev. F. D. Maurice, 287. 

To the Rev. W. H. Brookfield, 611. 

To Ulysses, 682. 

To Victor Hugo, 612. 

To Virgil, 642. 

To W. C. Macready, 658. 

Translations of Homer. On, 344. 

Two Greetings, The, 610. 

Two Voices, The. 37. 

Ulysses, 117. 
Ulysses, To, 682. 

Vastness, 667. 

Victim, The, 348. 

Victoria, Queen. On the Jubilee of, 660. 

Village Wife, The; or, The Entail. 592. 

Virgil, To, 642. 

Vision of Sin. The, 14S. 

Voice and the Peak, The, 350. 

Voyage, The, 144. 

Voyage of Maeldune, The. 607. 

Wages, 349. 

Walking to the Mail, 100. 

' Wan Sculptor, weepest thou to take the cast,' 

31. 
Ward, W. G., In Memoriam, 694. 
War, The, 946. 

Welcome to Alexandra, A, 334. 
Welcome to Her Royal Highness, Marie Alexan- 

drovna, Duchess of Edinburgh, A, 346. 
Wellington, Duke of, Ode on the Death of the, 

288. 
Will, 288. 

Will Waterproof's Lyrical Monologue, 137. 
Window, The ; or, The Song of th^ Wrens, 

357. 
Wreck, The, 621. 

' You ask me, why, tho' ill at ease,' 79. 



3U,77-7 



LBAp'05 



